by Jim Magwood
When he felt the cab stop, he looked out and noticed they were at the airport, so he just got out of the cab and walked away. He saw he was in front of the Aer Lingus counters, so walked over and asked the man, “Where can I go from here?”
The man looked at Westing strangely for a moment, then said, “We have a flight to Dublin in about three hours, sir and one to Shannon in about two hours. The Dublin flight is direct and there’s only one change on the Shannon flight.”
“Where’s Shannon?” Westing asked.
“Well—sir, that’s—Ireland.” A worried look was on the young man’s face now, but he was still polite.
“Oh. Then that’s what I want, I guess. I’ll go there.”
“Sir, are you alright? You look maybe a little—tired?”
“Yeah. I was in an accident, but I’m okay. Yeah. I need to go to Shannon.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll ring that up for you. Just one moment. May I have your passport, please.” While he processed the booking, he casually pushed the buzzer that would have Security at the counter quickly. “Sir, that will be Aer Lingus flight 106, leaving at 9:40—that’s in about two hours—and it will arrive about noon tomorrow. It’s a 10-1/2 hour flight with one connection and wait in Dublin. And that will be a total of $689, sir. Which card will you be using?”
“Here’s my American Express. Use it.”
As the man rang the card through, he turned back to David and said, “I’m sorry, sir. That card is invalid.”
David suddenly remembered that the accounts had all been closed, and replied, “Oh, yeah. I forgot we changed the accounts. I left the new cards at home. Let me just give you cash.”
He opened his moneybag, dug out several hundreds, and passed them over to the man. “Is that enough?” he asked.
The young man said, “Yes, sir,” and quickly processed the payment. “Here is your ticket, sir, and your boarding pass.
The flight will begin loading in about an hour.”
Westing said, “Thank you,” and turned away from the counter—directly into two very large men standing immediately behind him.
“Sir, would you come with us, please?”
Four hours later, David Westing still sat in the Security Office. He had a passport they wouldn’t let him use, a flight ticket to Ireland that had now been cancelled, two bags full of money and clothes that wouldn’t get him anywhere except back into the city, and several security officers milling around asking dozens of questions.
Goodbye, Mr. Westing.
CHAPTER 13
Henry looked up at the knock on his office door. The young man was a courier and entered with a small box, saying,
“This is for you if you’re Mr. Baxter. Your secretary out there said to bring it right to you.”
Henry signed for the package and the courier hurried out.
Henry was used to getting courier deliveries. Many people sent him information relative to stories he and they were involved in. This package, though, didn’t have a return address on it, just a delivery code number. He carefully opened the wrapping, glanced inside and said, aloud, “Another one.” He knew it would do no good to question the courier; he had tried that with a couple of the other packages he had received and had gotten the same answer, “Sorry sir. This was dropped at our station box already paid…see the Pre-Paid sticker? We just deliver them. Don’t know who sends them.”
Since the first receipt of the Hammershed materials, Henry had received several more packages and they were always sent and delivered this way. If not from the way the package was wrapped and addressed, he could immediately tell by glancing at the contents. The small box was full of invoice, letter, fax and e-mail copies, and even some original documents. The only major difference from the way the others looked was the name on the cover sheet that was always on top—David Westing, this time. Who was David Westing? he thought. He reached for the second piece of paper he knew would be in the stack, the Summary that had come with all the other packages. It was headed “David Westing, Westing Sales and Supplies, New York.” Henry began reading another fascinating story of deceit, betrayal and illegality.
His eye was immediately drawn to some newspaper clippings, and he lifted them from the box. Clippings from three New York papers with headlines of “Local Building Burns.
Business Lost”; “Businessman Claims Business Destroyed and Funds Stolen”; “Businessman Claims Life Savings Pirated…Everything Gone.” They all told the story of a building fire that was still being claimed as suspicious by the authorities and how the entire building had eventually collapsed. Two of the stories went on to report the alleged disappearance of all the corporate and personal funds and investments of the owner, Mr. David Westing. They included detailed interviews with several banking officials who told how they had received computerized requests to close various bank and investment accounts. They had properly confirmed (they all stressed), either verbally or by computer, with the account owner, Mr.
Westing, and then transferred the funds on to the designated accounts as specified.
“We were extremely careful with this transaction,” one of the bankers was reported saying, “because of the large amount involved. No. We don’t know why Mr. Westing would have closed the account, but the request was very specific regarding the close order and about the accounts the funds were to be transferred to. I do know that one account was in Zurich and another was in the Antilles; the others I don’t know for sure.”
Mr. Westing had not been available for comment, other than to have said again he had no knowledge of the transfers, or the fire, and that he was being robbed by someone. “I don’t even know where we’re going to live. The house is being foreclosed. They say the payments haven’t been made for several months, but I have the entries right here in the checkbook.
And the cars are gone, and…” It was being rumored that the FBI had been asked to review the case, but the local FBI headquarters would not comment on the situation.
The reports also said that Mrs. Julie Westing stated she was opening her own investigations into the losses as she apparently had not known about the various accounts. “David always told me we were okay with our money,” she was reported as tearfully saying, “but never said anything about all these different accounts. I’m sitting here now with just about only the clothes I’m wearing.” There was a picture with one of the news clippings that showed an enraged Mrs. Westing standing on the front steps of their country mansion, staring after a tow truck that was apparently hauling off the family cars—his Mercedes SLR McLaren Roadster and her S600 Se-dan—while in the background a moving truck was being loaded with furniture that was being carried out the front door.
A Sheriff’s deputy was trying to be inconspicuous as he stood at the side of the door with a clipboard, apparently recording the furniture as it went into the truck.
After some thought, Henry picked up his phone and dialed a friend who worked in the FBI building downtown. He had cultivated the agent for several years and had received background information on several stories he had worked. The agent, Bob D’Arcy, knew Henry had never revealed secrets or sources, and gave Henry more than the standard, No comment.
“Bob, it’s Henry. Yeah, I’m good. Time to get together again for a couple of Jameson’s? Sure. Maybe next week? Okay.
Yeah, I’ll call. Say, do you have anything on this David Westing thing from New York? I know it’s out of your area, but…Oh, you’re on it from here? Must be a little bigger than what’s on the news?”
“Henry, this is confidential and I can’t go into any detail, but yes, it’s a whole lot bigger than the news. Yes, we are in the investigation now; yes, it’s offshore transfers; yes, it looks very much like arson on the building; and yes, Mr. Westing is the prime. Beyond that, I can’t say much.”
“Does Westing look like he did it himself?”
“He’s claiming every type of innocence, Henry, and we don’t have any direct proof yet of his involvement. The way things sta
nd right now, either he’s a good planner and liar, or someone really did a job on him. We don’t have any proof of anything yet, but I can say there’s nothing we’ve found yet that ties him directly into it. The off-shores are places we can’t get into in any easy way, but we’re looking.”
“Anything you can tell me at this time, Bob?”
“No story on this, right?”
“No story, Bob.”
“Ok, then there is one thing. You’ll have to find it out yourself, though. Besides us, both the ATF and the federal export guys are very interested.”
Henry thought for just a moment, then said, “Weapons sales or shipments?”
“Sorry, Henry. That I can’t confirm,” pause “or deny.”
“Can you suggest anyone else who might have some information on this?”
D’Arcy thought for a moment, then replied, “Do you know a guy by the name of Ron Kincaide?”
“Uh, I know of a Kincaide from the Agency?”
“Yeah, that’s him. You might give him a call, see what he can say. He has a lot of other sources, also.”
Henry paused for a moment, finally made a quick decision and said, “Bob, I received a special package this morning I think you should see. I’m going to write a very quick introduction story on this thing and it’ll likely be in the Times for tomorrow morning. Perhaps you should have a warrant in my office tomorrow—like right after you read my story?”
He could hear the breathing on the other end of the line as the agent digested what he had said. Then, D’Arcy said, “I’ll bring it myself, Henry. Will you be there about four? It will take about that long—after I read the story.”
“I’ll be here. You might be sure to note any of the documents and materials I reference in the story and be sure the warrant mentions them, also.”
Bob D’Arcy was quiet for several seconds, then said, “I’ll see you about four tomorrow, Henry,” before he hung up.
As the phone went silent, Baxter thought about what he was doing, basically giving away his documents and breaking all the rules about reporter’s confidential sources and all that.
But, he also knew he would have a lot more opportunity to tap his FBI source once D’Arcy saw what he had. Favors. Ah, what a beautiful word. He punched his intercom and said,
“Darla?”
“Yes, sir,” came the immediate reply.
“A little job, please.” A few seconds later, his door opened and his assistant came in.
“Darla, I need this whole box copied. Doesn’t look like there’s too much, so I don’t think it should take long.”
“Special handling, sir?”
“Yes, please. Rush it this afternoon. I’ll have a visitor tomorrow afternoon and it needs to be ready before then. Make two copies, both for me. The original box will be for my visitor, so be sure the copies are good. I’ll probably need them for several stories. Um, wear some gloves when you touch the originals, okay? Get some paper towels from my bar to carry the box with. Don’t touch anything with bare hands.”
She raised her eyebrows in question, but said nothing.
This sounded like a bit more than some of the other things she had done for him, but she simply nodded her understanding and went across the office for the towels.
As she left his office with the box, Henry sat quietly for a long time thinking through his next actions. He had to make sure he had clean hands in these things or he would definitely be in trouble with someone. He also had to be sure he did a good job writing up the story. He thought of the four others that were in process and he wanted to make sure they kept coming. Both the joy of writing the stories and the swelling of his bank accounts made him smile. Yes, these stories definitely needed to keep on keeping on.
He also knew he needed to keep an arm’s distance from the events, as his private news supplier called them. Many people were going to be asking the “Why?” questions very soon, and he had to be isolated from those questions. The
“Why you, Henry?” questions would be hard enough to answer, but he generally figured that if he kept himself clean in just getting the information and writing the stories, he could shrug his shoulders at those questions. But the “What’s going on?” questions—they would be the hard ones. People had already asked him if he personally knew any of the people involved in the events. They also wondered why the people were being singled out for what looked like vengeance attacks. So far, the victims had all appeared to be bad guys, but who was singling them out, and how was it being done? Somebody had to be huge to have the assets to set up these events. Were the bad guys really bad? Was this some kind of a Star Chamber thing?
He recalled an acquaintance had already said, “How dare anyone choose to decide the innocence or guilt of anyone else.
How dare they judge someone without it being in a legitimate court? And how can they get away with breaking all the privacy laws and digging into people’s private lives to steal information about them. Henry, where is this world going for this to be able to happen? And you, Henry, better be real careful about how close you get to these vigilantes. You could end up being looked at as one of them.”
Henry pondered that scenario for a while. How could he explain the guilt or innocence of any of the victims to the public? As far as he could see, each of them was no doubt guilty as charged. The proof he had received had been just too convincing and convicting. Letters, e-mails, invoices; signed by various owners and executives. The subjects had been rumored to have had shady dealings for years, but had been carefully protected. But, the question would be could they rightly be judged outside the courts, and could action rightly be taken against them? Could he justify an international Star Chamber to the public? As far as Henry was personally concerned, go get them. Everyone knew they were bad. Pick up the ball bats and pitchforks and get rid of them all. But, could he explain his judgmental reasoning to his reading public? Or his friends?
Or, did it matter? He knew he was right and the public had to grow up and face reality. The world was rolling down hill faster now than it could be pushed back up the hill.
Something needed to be done about the evil that was running rampant. Just get out of our way and let us take care of it. Was that the right attitude? Could that attitude be justified in today’s world? But how else could you take care of the things that were wrong today? Could no one see the evil? Or, was it now just to be laughed at, or tolerated—or enjoyed? As his friend had said, “Where is this world going?” and, he thought , Can’t anyone else see it? Someone had to take care of these things, somehow, and maybe these vigilantes were right. You people haven’t taken care of this for all these years. So, now get out of our way and we’ll do what you won’t. Maybe that was the right way, after all.
Then another thought rolled through his mind. I wonder what will be done with all the money that’s apparently being removed from the bad guys? Millions? Maybe billions? Some of it, according to Mr. Johns, was going directly to innocent parties so they wouldn’t suffer, but what about the rest?
Would it be redirected to countering what the evil had done?
Would it be controlled, or could it end up becoming an evil in itself?
Henry thought about that for a while, and then started on the rudiments of the story. He e-mailed the Times that a breaking story was on it’s way so they would be holding a spot. As he was almost finished, Darla knocked and entered with the box, this time wearing thin plastic gloves. She put the box on his desk, then went back out and got two more. “These are the copies,” she said. “I’ve marked the boxes with the word ‘copy’ on all sides so they won’t get mistaken.”
As she left the office again, he started looking through one of the boxes of copies, paging through the documents.
Just like the others, he thought. Invoices, memos, e-mails, signatures. He saw a name he vaguely recognized. Kamal. Kamal. Wasn’t he some ambassador or something for one of those little African or Arab places? He couldn’t quite place the name, but he thought
, If I’m right, how in the world could a little destitute country be buying almost a billion dollars of weapons when they couldn’t even feed their people? More importantly, how could the world allow such a thing? Maybe it just proved the vigilantes were right, after all. And it looked like Kamal had purchased the weapons from this David Westing? If so, Westing was probably cooked and Kamal and his country would likely be hauled into the international gun sights.
He scanned through several more of the documents, gathered enough data to drop into the text he had started to flesh out for the story, proofed it carefully and sent it out by e-mail to the Times and twelve other papers he had relations with.
Words such as this reporter received a box of business documents, photographs, fax and e-mail copies, ensured that his FBI friend, D’Arcy, would be able to draft his warrant in a manner to collect everything in the original box. He carefully locked the copies and the original box in his office safe and started working on follow-up stories for some of the other events as well as several other investigations he was on.