Fatal Harbor (12 page)

A jet glided overhead, heading to Reagan or to Dulles, airports named after famed Cold Warriors. I watched the fish at play. “What kind of fish are those?”

A short laugh. “Standard issue goldfish. Five dollars for a plastic bag of a couple dozen. You toss them in the water and you can forget about them. They eat what they eat, they reproduce, and in the winter they burrow in the mud. That’s why I found them so attractive.” He turned a little on the bench. “Tell me about the last time you saw John.”

“I was doing a story about the anti-nuclear demonstrations at the Falconer nuclear power plant. There were two factions in the protests. The smaller was the more violent of the two, the Nuclear Freedom Front. I made an arrangement to interview the head of the NFF, Curt Chesak.”

Lawrence nodded. “I’m familiar with the organization and its leader. Do go on.”

“I was escorted to a hidden site in the nearby woods where the NFF was camping out. I had an interview with Chesak. My escort in and out of the camp was your son.”

He lowered his head, put a hand to his forehead, like he was trying to hide whatever emotions were playing across his face. “My son . . . a good boy, though we did disagree about politics. Most fathers and sons do, don’t they. His mother and I weren’t thrilled with the schooling he was missing, volunteering for that . . . group. But he was headstrong, my boy.”

Lawrence raised his head. His eyes were red-rimmed. “Was he good at what he was doing? Was he well? Was he proud?”

“Yes to all three,” I said. “He was smart, he knew what he was doing, and he did it well.”

A nod. “Thank you . . . if I may. . . .”

“Go right ahead.”

“We’ve not heard much from the police in your state. Do you know anything about the investigation, or its progress?”

This was about to get interesting, and not in a good way. I looked over at the pond again. “Some.”

“And?”

“You might not like hearing what I have to say.”

“I think you underestimate me, Mister Cole.”

“All right. At first police believed that your son had been shot by Victor Toles. Victor earlier had assassinated his stepfather, a prominent anti-nuclear activist.”

“Really? Why? Was he opposed to his father’s actions?”

“Yes, but not involving nuclear power. It involved money, lots of money.”

“And why would he have killed my son?”

“When your son escorted me out of the camp, Victor showed up and took me away instead, sending John back to the site. A few minutes later, Victor tried to shoot me in the marshes near the campsite. I managed to escape and later, slogging around in the marshes, I heard another gunshot, the one that killed your son. I thought it was Victor, shooting your son to cover up the fact that he had tried to kill me. Now, I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“Because Victor Toles is under arrest, and he’s only been charged with one killing, that of his stepdad. No one’s been charged with the murder of your son.”

He slowly nodded. “All this I pretty much know, except for your part in it. All right, is there more?”

“There is. Curt Chesak led the demonstrators who broke into the plant site, where two demonstrators were killed and a number of police officers were seriously injured. I think Curt killed your son, Mister Thomas.”

“Why? Why would that . . . man kill my boy?”

I took a deep breath, looked right into the older man’s eyes. “Because I believe he found out that your son was working for you and the CIA.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

L
awrence stared at me, and whip-snap, his arm flew out and he slapped me across the face. It stung, it was a surprise, and I bit my tongue in the process, but I kept my place on the stone bench.

“You . . . how dare you say that?” he asked, voice shaking. “What the hell gives you the right to say anything of the sort? My God, what a fantasy . . . that I worked for the CIA. Where did you get such a bullshit story?”

“From your son.”

“He never said such a thing!”

“Unfortunately for you, he did, when he was bringing me into that campsite, not letting me know where it was located, and when I complimented him on his tradecraft. He said he’d learned everything he knew from his father. And when I saw his obituary a while later, it said that you were retired from government service. A rather bland description, but one that fits one who used to work for the CIA.”

I wanted to rub my left cheek, but I kept my composure. “Just so you know, I wasn’t always a journalist, Mister Todd. A number of years ago, I worked at the Department of Defense.”

“Not impressive,” he replied. “Tens of thousands of people have worked at the DoD. What did you do there? Something impressive, like toilet paper analyst? Parking-lot guard? Late-night housekeeping?”

“I was a research analyst with a group within the Defense Research Agency called the Marginal Issues Section. I worked there for nearly a decade.”

His eyes narrowed. “What was your clearance level?”

“What difference does it make? It’s been such a long while, I’m sure the classification levels have changed at least a half dozen times. But I’ll tell you it was high enough.”

A pause. “When did you leave?”

I told him.

“Why did you leave, Mister Cole?”

“Medical discharge.”

“Really? What did you do, cut your finger on a letter opener? Have a water cooler drop on your foot?”

I stood up. “No. One day my section and I were in a remote part of one of the Nevada testing ranges, doing a field exercise. We got lost. We traveled into one of the testing ranges, where we were exposed to a biological agent that was illegal under a number of arms-control treaties in place at the time. Everyone except for me was killed. In exchange for keeping my mouth shut, I was pensioned off and sent away.”

“Mister Cole, I—”

“I came here, hoping to share information, perhaps reach some sort of arrangement where you and I could seek the same person responsible for murdering your son, and for nearly murdering a friend of mine. But if you’d rather sit on your bony ass and insult me, then I’ll leave.”

I turned and started up the walk.

“Mister Cole . . . please. Do return. My apologies.”

It was a struggle, but I turned. I went back and sat down.

“My apologies as well for striking you . . . for, if truth be told, I should be striking myself.”

“All apologies accepted.”

He attempted a wry smile. “And my ass isn’t that bony.”

“Duly noted.”

He turned some and looked at the pond, folded his arms. “Whatever conversation we have over the next several minutes never happened. Clear?”

“Oh, yes, it’s clear. I remember the drill.”

“Well, in case you don’t remember all of the particulars of the drill, here’s something else you should know. This part of my garden is under constant electronic jamming. If you have some sort of recording device or transmitter on you, nothing will be recorded.”

“I thought you were retired.”

“Retired, but not stupid.” He wiggled his feet and said, “And you’re certainly not stupid. What brought you to the theory that my son was working for me?”

“Because your son was killed in a location near where Curt Chesak was residing. Because Curt Chesak has a taste for violence. Because Victor Toles has not been charged with your boy’s death. And because Curt Chesak is somehow connected to a D.C. lobbying firm that apparently has its fingers in a lot of interesting areas.”

Boy, did that get his attention. He sat straight up and said, “Tell me more.”

“Your turn,” I said. “I’ve passed along a few chunks of information. Do me the honor of returning the favor.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “You were right. My boy . . . my poor dear boy . . . he wasn’t really working for me, or the Agency, you understand. It was all quite informal. Whatever information he had on Curt Chesak, I asked him to pass it on to me.”

“Why?”

“Because the man’s an enigma, that’s why. He’s like that idiot that showed up in Mexico a few years back, Subcommandante Marcos or something like that. Guy wore a ski mask to preserve his identity, supposedly was this revolutionary, was going to organize the Mexican peasants and overthrow the evil oppressors, blah blah blah. You know how we knew the guy was a phony? When all these Hollywood types hiked into the wilderness to show their solidarity with him and the working class. A real revolutionary wouldn’t have let those bozos within a hundred miles of him and his troops. Of course, if those Hollywood types really wanted to show their solidarity, they’d give away about eighty percent of their fortunes to the oppressed and still have enough to live on quite comfortably.”

“Sometimes the obvious solutions escape people.”

“That should be put on a bumper sticker somewhere. Anyway, that was the same thing for Curt Chesak. We wanted to know who he was, where he came from, and how he came to lead a violent anti-nuclear protest organization.”

“And who was backing him?”

“Of course. Don’t be stupid. It’s beneath you.”

“What have you found out?”

He shook a finger at me. “Your turn.”

This give-and-take reminded me so much of my previous career that it almost made me nauseous. I pressed on. “The lobbying group is Munce, Price & O’Toole. Very little on the Internet. Their clients include foreign governments and industries, including agriculture, military, energy, pharmaceuticals, and the like.”

Lawrence rubbed at his chin. “I don’t know about them, but I’m sure I can find out. All right, time for your question.”

“Where did you work at the Agency?”

Another slight smile. “Nothing too glamorous. An economics desk. Not really where you’d expect James Bond to be sitting, am I right?”

I kept quiet for a moment, but only a moment. “You and your former co-workers . . . you guys were concerned about what was happening at Falconer.”

“Good point.”

“Nuclear energy supplies about twenty percent of the electricity in this country.”

“Another good point.”

“If current or future nuclear plants are closed or delayed, that means replacement power has to come from someplace else. Domestic or foreign. So if you were some sort of . . . collective that wanted to increase your market share, you might do something like fund and support a militant group that would disrupt one of your competitors.”

Lawrence put his hands up, gave me a slow clap-clap-clap. “Nicely done, Mister Cole. Too bad you’re not still at the DoD, or with my Agency.”

“Not going to happen.”

“Why? Still bitter about what happened to you in Nevada?”

“No, I can’t stand the hours.”

That brought a slight smile. “True . . . and number-crunching at the CIA can be dull indeed.”

“So why are you involved? And not the FBI?”

“Because economic terrorism isn’t as sexy as cyberterrorism, or actual terrorism. That’s what the FBI is concerned about, and rightfully so. But a functioning, healthy economy . . . without it, this planet will go very dark in a very, very short time. And it wouldn’t take much. A short-term oil embargo. A real nasty computer virus. Some refineries off-line. A few low-yield nukes with the right EMP effect. My God, and are we prepared? Not in the least. Hell, libraries are burning books now because everything’s stored electronically. But what happens when the electronics fail? Collapse. Utter and final collapse.”

I didn’t have anything to add at the moment, and he put his chin in his hand and brooded. “So we bend the rules against the use of CIA assets in-country. We go around asking for favors, asking for friends . . . even asking for relatives, God help us, to give us information and data. Anything and everything, so we can get a handle on what’s going on out there and who’s paying for it.”

He used both hands to wipe at his eyes. A couple more mournful minutes passed, and his voice strengthened. “Are you a student of history?”

“Most history,” I said. “Not very good when it comes to Far East or African history. I know my limitations.”

“Good for you. So many don’t. Do you think if you were able to go back in time and talk to a random Roman citizen in the second or third century, that they would realize they were a citizen of an empire in decline?”

“No, they wouldn’t. They were too close to it.”

“Yes, they were, weren’t they. Oh, they’d mutter about the barbarians, the corruption, the high taxes, but they would still be convinced that they belonged to the most powerful empire on earth. They would still be thinking that, right up to the time Rome was sacked, the aqueducts dried up, and the harbors were destroyed. You know, the Romans were able to make these wonderful artificial harbors; but centuries later, their descendants would see nothing about them but harbors that would trap and sink ships. From one port to the next, fatal harbors, never to be repaired or used again.”

For the last few sentences he stared across at the garden again, and he said, “Anything more you can offer?”

“Yes,” I said. “There are other interests out there. I’ve encountered them a few times.”

“Really? That’s fascinating. Do let me know.”

“I found out that Chesak was backed by a professor of history at Boston University. I went to interview him, he had nothing to tell me, and when I left his office some men posing as federal agents attempted to detain a . . . friend of mine.”

“What kind of friend?”

“Security consultant.”

“Ah, a wise idea. Were they successful in detaining your friend?”

“No. Shots were fired. I saw the two men fall. Their vehicle was shot up. There were dozens of witnesses. The next day, the
Boston Globe
reported that the whole incident was a student-run film project gone awry. Later that same day, the BU professor disappeared and his house burned down. My own house is under surveillance.”

He rubbed at his chin. “Fascinating.”

“Seemed mostly terrifying at the time.”

“Yes, yes, of course. So what does that tell you, former analyst Cole?”

“You tell me. Any chance they were your guys?”

“Hah! I wish . . . but still, who knows. Do I have to remind you that our previous work was trying to find truth in a wilderness of mirrors?”