Measure of Darkness (18 page)

I
t's probably just my imagination, but I swear when Teddy Boyle is excited his hair stands up straighter and brightens in color, like a pheasant showing off his tail feathers. Mrs. Beasley notices and announces he's to have only decaffeinated coffee this morning so he won't be, as she puts it, “overstimulated.”

Too late for that. He's found us in the breakfast nook, where Naomi is absorbing her newspapers and I'm trying and failing to balance the column of knowns with the columns of unknowns. It seems like the more we discover the less we know for certain, and the trend is discouraging. Jack, irritatingly dapper at this hour, carefully sips Mrs. Beasley's French press coffee while going over the notes in his lined reporter's notebook. Now and then he consults his silenced BlackBerry, scrolling for clues apparently. I wish he'd find one, we could all use a good clue. And Dane, well, Dane has yet to call in, presumably because she had a late night with her new friend in the D.A.'s office.

“Interesting fact about Gama Guards,” our young hacker announces, dropping into the booth. “They were acquired last year by another company, Gatling Secu
rity Group. GSG. That's who really employs the guards at QuantaGate.”

“GSG,” Naomi says, musing. “Rings a bell.”

“Sounds familiar to me, too,” says Jack, keenly interested.

“Dazzle us with details,” Naomi says.

Teddy is eager to comply. “They're hot-wired to the Pentagon, supplying private contractors to Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, just about anywhere the U.S. military has been deployed. Among many other activities, GSG contractors oversee interrogations for the CIA. And get this: GSG has been implicated in one of the torture scandals. At the behest of the CIA they kidnapped suspects, transported them to remote locations and used what they called ‘enhanced interrogation techniques' to extract information. Sound familiar?”

It's clear that Teddy hasn't slept, and also clear that for him pulling an all-nighter has been somehow invigorating. His eyes are red-rimmed but full of excitement and maybe a little righteous indignation, which becomes clear as he shares what he has discovered about the company that supplies security guards to QuantaGate.

“Begin at the beginning,” Naomi says, very firmly. “Deep background first. Lay the foundation and go from there.”

“Okay, sure, you're right,” Teddy says, taking a deep breath to steady himself. “The beginning isn't that long ago, for such a big company. Gatling Security Group was founded by Taylor Gatling, Jr., a young Delta Force officer, the day he resigned from the military. I can't get to the specifics, because the records are buried deep in the Pentagon, but it looks like the deal was in place before he resigned. He had it wired. That is, he had a contract ready to fulfill the minute he took off the uni
form. Started out fairly modest, supplying a dozen or so civilian contractors to work with the CIA as scouts, identifying terrorist targets in Afghanistan, out in the remote tribal areas. Dangerous work, and they did it very well. Within a few months GSG had more than fifty people on the payroll, with an open-ended, no-bid contract. By the end of the first year it was over five hundred. Today there are GSG crews in Afghanistan who detain and interrogate suspects, supposedly under CIA supervision. There are GSG crews who load missiles into Predator drones, crews who pilot the drones by remote control, crews of mechanics who keep the drones fueled and ready to fly. They currently bill nearly half a billion per annum, and that's only the contracts that come under the sunshine laws. Covert operations are under the general operating budget of the CIA, or whatever agency is sponsoring a particular operation, and those we don't know about. We do know the company is privately held, with controlling ownership in the hands of Taylor Gatling, Jr., and a substantial minority share held by a private hedge fund controlled by recently retired generals. The company currently employs more than three thousand people worldwide, including Gama Guards. Not bad for a Delta Force captain with good connections. The guy put the pedal to the metal and went from zero to a billion in seven years. It's all very cozy, although—and this is what knocks me out—not even slightly illegal.”

“Were you able to ascertain specifics on the torture allegations?” Jack asks, looking up from his notebook.

“Just what was mentioned by reporters who covered the Congressional investigations. Most of the details are redacted. But whatever support the GSG crews provided, apparently it didn't involve waterboarding. They were adamant about that. When someone asked about chemi
cal interrogations—administering powerful drugs to suspects—the committee went into closed session. Nothing on the record, not that I can get a hold of.”

Naomi's eyes are almost as bright as Teddy's. “Chemical interrogation,” she says. “That's what happened to Shane.”

The young hacker appears to be full to bursting. “And I saved the best for last. You'll never guess where Gatling Security Group world headquarters is located.”

I get the distinct impression that Naomi does, in fact, know the location, that the interesting factoid has already surfaced in her remarkable mind, but she's circumspect enough to let him complete the thought.

“Pease International Tradeport in Newington, New Hampshire,” he says, triumphant. “Less than fifty miles from here by air. A former military base with a massive runway. You could land a 747 there, no problem.”

“Or a stealth helicopter,” Naomi adds.

“Exactly,” says Teddy. “Pretty cool, huh?”

J
ack Delancey, bird-watcher.

He's costumed appropriately, in a floppy hat, khaki walking pants, waterproof hiking boots and a shirt with way too many pockets. Binoculars of course. That's what makes the disguise so useful, the ability to wander around with a pair of powerful lenses, supposedly looking for an eagle nesting area. Part of the nature trail, conveniently marked on a handout map, that parallels the vast concrete runway area at the Tradeport. So he's got a great excuse to be clocking the old airbase where, it is said, eagles do actually soar, rising on currents of hot air over the runways. This despite a steady stream of civilian aircraft still using the facility, as well as a National Guard refueling unit. Maybe the eagles are smart enough to get out of the way, or maybe that's why they are, as the saying goes, rare birds.

No eagles today, but plenty of turkey vultures, spinning up like paper kites. A kettle, that's what one of the real bird-watchers told him, stopping to chat. Vultures swirling on updrafts are called a kettle. Interesting fact. Not that Jack has any intention of taking up the hobby. His idea of strolling in the woods involves a blonde, not
a bird. Or a brunette. Or for that matter, a redhead. He's not fussy, which is one reason he's had four wives. Although as far as he's concerned Eileen will be the last because his roving days are over, hand to his heart, this time he means it, amen.

Tromping though the underbrush he finds a suitable area, one that affords a view of the Gatling Security Group “world headquarters,” which sounds a little too grand to be taken seriously. They'll know more about that when Milton reports at end of day. He should be in there by now, flashing his CPA credentials and then melting into the office background, as he does so well. Jack's mission is to ascertain if the company happens to have a stealth helicopter hidden away in one of those big old hangars. Because the coincidence of GSG providing security guards for QuantaGate and also being expert in the fine art of spiriting suspects away for interrogations is just too much. The working theory is that upon learning of Keener's murder, a covert agency—Defense Intelligence, perhaps—tasked GSG with securing sensitive documents and interrogating the chief suspect, namely Shane. Unless, of course, the civilian firm had also been involved in framing Randall Shane for the crime, which raises a whole lot of other interesting possibilities. Like, for instance, the possibility that they may have information about Joey Keener. All of which is speculation at the moment. They have suspicions but no proof, which is why Milty's in there and Jack is out here, tromping through the pucker-brush with a pair of binoculars welded to his eye sockets.

The hangars are huge, built for repairing giant bombers, which begs the question of why GSG acquired the buildings in the first place. Must be a bitch to heat in the winter. But then, this isn't winter, that's for sure, and
even from his hidden spot under the trees Jack can feel the heat radiating from the miles of runways. So maybe it's a moot point. He can't get any closer without showing himself and he's not ready to do that, not yet, so this vantage will have to do. The enormous shed doors are part-way open, leaving most of the vast interior in shadow. Even with the binocs, he can't see very far inside. There are a couple of vehicles in the shade, transport vans, probably, and a private jet. A couple of guys in overalls are polishing the jet, taking their own sweet time, but if there's a helicopter hiding in the shadows, Jack can't make it out. Which doesn't mean it's not there.

Set back from the hangar is a long bunkerlike structure bristling with antennae, looks like it might date from the 1950s, a couple of smaller warehouse structures and, behind that, a new two-story office building emblazoned with the company logo.
GSG—For A Safer World
. That's where the office staff will be located, hunched over terminals and counting all that Pentagon-funded money. With any luck, Milton has already claimed one of those terminals and has begun his “audit.”

Jack wishes him luck. Better luck than he's having out here in mosquitoville, staring at shadows.

 

The company prefers to keep its employees fully caffeinated. True, there's a decaf option, but mostly the requests are for high-octane, as prepared by a tag team of young gals from the cafeteria staff, who act as baristas during the midmorning break. Unlike Starbucks, there are no fancy macchiatos or mochas on menu, but steamed lattes are available, cheerfully dispensed, and there's a fresh BestWhip dispenser for those who want to top off their espressos. All in all, a vast improvement on the usual corporate swill, and Milton is happily sipping his
latte and milling around with a dozen or so of the office staff, most of whom happen to be female. Despite the novelty of barista-brewed coffee, GSG is in many ways a very traditional setup. A throwback, really, in which the mostly male bosses have glass-fronted offices on a mezzanine, overlooking the mostly female staff assigned to workstations on the main floor. The formal breaks are staggered so that no more than a quarter of the staffers are absent from their workstations at any one time.

As a visiting auditor Milton will be able to roam, but has so far been concentrating on receivables, where time cards and per-diem expenses are processed. Mostly paperless PDF files sent from BlackBerries half a world away, and which are then sorted, assembled, reprocessed and forwarded to the Pentagon under the provisions of The Contract. That's how staff refer to it, with capital letters, and with the reverence of patriots quoting from the Constitution. The Contract states this, The Contract states that. Not surprising, since an understanding of the minutiae of the contract enables the company to make a guaranteed profit on every aspect of the business, and thus keep generous salaries and benefits flowing to all of the employees.

The second most common phrase uttered by staffers is “Taylor wants,” and although Milton has yet to see the big boss, he has already formed a pretty good picture of the man, who is held in very high regard by his staff. Something of a local legend, apparently. Star running back of the high school football team, awarded the Bronze Star for his military service and now founder of one of the biggest employers in the area, although most of the actual employees, and by far the most highly paid, are “day” contractors assigned to posts in Afghanistan.

“Over there,” says one of his coffee mates, under her breath. “That's him.”

Taylor Gatling, Jr., is in the house. Nodding and giving little celebrity waves as he makes his way quickly over the main floor and lightly ascends the steps to the mezzanine. A fit-looking man in his mid-thirties, with a military-style haircut, casually dressed in short sleeves and slacks, designer sunglasses hanging from a shirt pocket. Ready to take on the world, no doubt about it, that much is obvious from a glance.

“What a cutie,” says one of the bookkeepers, and is quickly shushed, although the shushing is accompanied by knowing smiles. “Hey, it's not like he's married,” she adds, and then drops it upon being gently elbowed.

A few minutes later Milton is back at his workstation, sifting through on-screen files, when a supervisor taps him on the shoulder. “Mr. Bean? Could you follow me, please?”

Milton stands, aware that his cloak of invisibility is fraying—every eye on the main floor has him in focus—and nods meekly. “Of course, is there some problem?”

“No problem at all,” he is assured. “Strictly routine. We'll have you back at work in a jiffy.”

He follows the supervisor up to the mezzanine, where he's led into one of the glass-fronted offices. Hip perched on a desk, Taylor Gatling, Jr., greets him with a cool smile. “Milton Bean? Nice to meet you.”

He holds out a hand. Milton shakes. Thinking, it's okay to be nervous, I'm a nervous little guy who dislikes being singled out, that's my cover and also who I am.

“Have a seat, Mr. Bean, this won't take but a moment,” he says, using a remote to adjust the window shades for privacy.

There are two other men in the room, both of whom
share the boss's level of fitness, as well as the military haircuts. Casually dressed but nothing remotely casual about them. Security, Milton guesses. Definitely ex-military. Neither of them says a word.

“So, Milton, it's my understanding that you're a spot auditor. May I ask who you're working for?”

“My CPA firm,” Milton says, naming the firm that once employed him and still keeps his ID current. “I'm a forensic accountant.”

“Yeah, we get that, but who hired your firm? DOD? IRS? They both have the right to run audits at any time, without advance notification. Which is it?”

“Can't say, because I don't know.”

“I'm thinking IRS. Maybe that ID of yours is a cover and you really work directly for the Infernal Revenue. Is that it?”

“No, sir. It's a spot audit, that's all. We, um, do it all the time. I suggest you call my supervisor.” Milton takes a business card from his wallet, places it on the desk.

Taylor Gatling, Jr., doesn't touch the card. He seems faintly amused by the ploy. “No doubt if we call that number, your place of employment will be confirmed. My concern isn't the validity of your ID, Mr. Bean. It is, frankly, you.”

“Excuse me?”

“As you may have noticed, we have a state-of-the-art security system. When you presented your ID this morning your name and identification number ran through the system. Your name popped and the system notified us that a few days ago you were busily auditing accounts at QuantaGate, in Waltham, Massachusetts. Correct?”

“That's correct, yes.”

“It can't be a coincidence, Mr. Bean.”

Milton allows himself a shrug, as if his motives are
questioned every day, part of the job. He's ready with a plausible fallback position. “There was a question about the time cards for the security guards. Whether or not Gama Guards may have billed for more personnel than were actually on the premises over the last two quarters. GSG owns Gama Guards, so here I am.”

“Ah,” Taylor says, arms folded comfortably across his chest. “So you're investigating possible fraud, is that it? Billing for no-show workers?”

“Just checking the books.”

“Because, funny thing, Gama Guards is located in Delaware. You want to hire Gama Guards security guards, you call the office in Wilmington. It all goes through Wilmington. All billing, all time cards, all paychecks, all ledgers, all books. Everything. Somebody made a mistake. You're in the wrong office in the wrong state, Mr. Bean.”

Milton does his best to look dumbfounded, which isn't all that difficult. “There's obviously been a mistake,” he says, as obsequiously as possible. “All I can do is apologize. It's company policy that forensic accountants leave the target premises upon request, pending legal resolution. I'll get my things and leave immediately.”

As Milton attempts to rise, the two subordinates force him back down in the chair, not a word spoken, and hold him there with grips of iron. Without him quite knowing how they did it, they have moved behind him, cutting off any possible angle of escape.

Taylor gives him a grim, self-satisfied smile. “We have a few more questions,” he says.

It happens so fast that Milton doesn't have time to draw a breath. One moment he's projecting confusion and nervous subservience—he's just a little man sent out on a job without adequate information, an office
mouse—the next he's blind, a black sack covering his head and a powerful hand clamped over his mouth.

As they lift him into the air, his legs kick futilely.