The Ghost Shipment, page 6
For the next few hours, they filmed versions of a post with Ped wearing a suit with red tie, yellow tie, blue tie, a blazer over an open-necked shirt, one with the black t-shirt and Levi’s, from his front, left side, right side, lit or shot from angles to amplify authority, inferiority, toughness, concern. Even the background music changed to suit each target demographic.
The only common ingredients in each post were a clip of bagel man and his customer, and Ped ripping up a check.
The messages were variations on a theme: People who bankroll candidates’ election campaigns always expect – and usually get – something in return: a federal contract, less regulation, lower taxes, a nudge here, a wink there. They have zero interest (Ped used Amanda’s thumb and index finger symbol) in tackling drugs or improving healthcare or schools or making communities better places to live.
‘And in return for having our TVs and phones bombarded with contrived poll-driven or AI political spin, bad-mouthing opponents, we have to pay more to visit the doctor, appliances catch on fire because safety checks have been outlawed, and gazillionaires like Don Francis flip the bird at the IRS.’
Ped was then shown ripping up the check for five hundred thousand dollars only as he pledged not to accept another dime from a corporate or special interest and repeated his promise not to run negative ads.
Jin and a platoon of content strategists and creators then got to work producing thousands of personalized versions of posts which would land in targeted newsfeeds, email accounts and text conversations in the hours before the voting centers opened in New York City and the counties of Nassau, Suffolk, Westchester, Rockland, Orange, Putnam and Erie.
*****
Jay recognized the look. More specifically the pause. The point in the conversation where a bribe was required to move things along. It was the same the world over. He’d seen it at roadblocks in Tanzania and Myanmar, border posts between Afghanistan and Pakistan, East and West Timor, in the guardhouse of a prison in South Africa. The only thing that changed was the color and denomination of the currency.
This time he was at the Kuta police station, a multi-story affair behind a large billboard featuring the head of the Indonesian Police and the police minister. Both were decked out in military-style uniforms and towering over a menacing row of helmeted men with riot shields, body armor and batons.
Jay’s requests to find out what happened to his friend Lompok had been stonewalled, until now.
Two million rupiah. $280 give or take.
Lompok was at Kerobokan Prison.
*****
The American Consulate in Denpasar was tucked behind a retail center near the Soldier Statue roundabout. Bec would have missed the entrance if it wasn’t for the orange cones in front of a white wall crowned with razor wire.
She showed her passport at the little blue security box, which got her through the gate.
The consulate, according to its website, handled passport applications, witnessed legal documents, processed birth reports of American citizens and helped with absentee voting. It also gave permission for tourists to visit Americans in Kerobokan Prison.
Online searches had shown at least eight current American inmates. Bec zeroed in on Seth Crichton, a Californian doing four years for possessing cocaine.
From social media accounts managed by his family, comments and posts from friends and former inmates, and a web forum run by a prisoner support group, Bec gleaned enough personal information to convince a distracted consular officer she was Seth’s cousin.
As she was leaving, she ran into Evan Henley, the Drug Enforcement liaison officer she’d met at the nightclub.
‘Ms. Corelli, I hope everything’s ok?’
‘Yeah. Thanks for asking. Was just arranging to meet a distant... someone... in Kerobokan Prison. Thinking it might give an interesting perspective for my story.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘I’m also hoping to find out about an Indonesian guy who might be able to help with our story. Ever heard of someone called Lompok?’
Henley shook his head.
‘Indonesians are mostly kept in the main part of the prison, as opposed to the foreigners’ block. They’ll only let you talk to your... distant... cousin?’
*****
Jay rode up to the traffic cones when he saw Bec come out of the consulate.
He handed her the helmet.
‘All sorted?’
‘Yeah. I guess.’
‘What is it? You either got the permission or you didn’t.’
‘Sorry, yes, I’m allowed to visit. It was just something Henley, the DEA guy... He seemed to know Lompok was at Kerobokan. There was this spark of recognition – it was his eyebrows – when I mentioned the name.’
‘It’s his job to know that stuff, Bec.’
‘I guess.’
They were hungry by the time they got back to Ubud, so instead of returning to their room Jay parked the scooter outside the Little Banana and they walked across the road for lunch.
The restaurant was perched on the hillside above the Camphuan Valley, named after two sacred rivers that met beneath the bridge into Ubud. They were led to one of the tables on the terrace decorated with clay pots filled with marigolds, and decided to share the Betutu Smoked Duck Feast.
Bec looked up from the menu. ‘It says here the duck is baked under coconut coals and rice husks for eight hours. The cook must have got up early. I also like the sound of the lime tart with vanilla bean ice cream, if I’ve got any room left.’
As they ate, they watched a procession of people anting along the famous Camphuan ridge track, passing in and out of view between lush swathes of vegetation obscuring the bustle of the town.
The duck was good. Jay asked the waitress what spices they used.
‘Cook use Balinese spices. Little bit secret.’
They paid the bill and were about to head out the door when Jay noticed a police car parked outside the Little Banana, a cop looking at the scooter.
‘Bec, I think you should go back and try that lime tart. I’ll come and get you once I’ve checked everything’s OK.’
He ducked through a side entrance, skirted the rear of neighboring properties, coming back to the road beside a guy setting up his mobile food stall. He watched him unpack baskets of noodles, eggs, vegetables, a wok, green gas bottle. A woman walked by on the other side of the road, carrying a basket of crackers on her head.
The cop was still standing beside the scooter, two hundred feet away. Jay stepped back into the shadow of a tree when he heard a siren approaching. It was a fire engine, with two guys in blue uniforms standing on top waving their arms to clear traffic ahead of them.
Jay chose his moment, then used the distraction to dart across the road into an empty lot beside the Mini Mart. A rough track led past the remnants of a temple being swallowed by the jungle, joining up with the path through the rice paddies at the back of the guesthouse.
Everything looked normal. The four-poster day bed with mosquito nets on the patio of their room. Clothes drying on a rack. Plastic hot water flask for all-day coffee and tea. Was he being paranoid?
He scaled the stairs two at a time and pushed open the ornate wooden doors, realizing an instant too late they were unlocked.
The spicy-vinegar smell of rice wine hit him the same time arms seized him from all sides and pinned him on the bed. His hands were pulled behind his back and roughly tied with a cord, before he was yanked to his feet, spun round.
Three of his attackers wore the brownish-gray outfits of the Indonesian Police, not that that meant much. Jay had heard the uniforms, badges, epaulettes and batons sold for a song at markets in Indonesian cities, although the car out front suggested they could be for real.
The fourth guy didn’t bother – or need – cop regalia. His bright yellow t-shirt matched the traditional udeng wrapped around his head, and distinctive rings on the two fingers holding a cigarette to his mouth had black stones set in gold heads. He had a Saddam Hussein moustache, and the nails on both thumbs were long and sharp, like his cocksure expression. In his right hand he held up a plastic bag of white powder, but it was the tattoo on the inside of his wrist that got Jay’s attention. A black circle bordered by yellow, with black dots spreading outwards like some contagion. He’d seen similar markings on the arm of Dreads, the drug peddler at Canggu beach.
Two-Rings blew a cloud of smoke into Jay’s face, dangling the bag that no doubt contained drugs.
‘Look what we found in your safe.’
Jay looked through the open doors of the closet, to the safe on a shelf below Bec’s clothes. Even if he’d known the room had a safe, he wouldn’t have used it. Never trusted them.
He smiled back at Two-Rings.
‘You and I both know what’s going on here. Let’s cut the bullshit. How much do you want?’
Another foul blast of smoke swamped his face, forcing Jay to cough.
‘Can’t buy your way out of this, Duggan. Bawa dia ke lubang.’
Jay had come across the word lubang before. It meant hole, or pit. Which at least made things clearer. This wasn’t about money. And they knew his name. They could have got it from the lobby at the Little Banana, but Jay thought that unlikely. The tattoo pointed to retribution for picking on the wrong guy at Canggu.
He considered Two-Rings and his uniformed sidekicks, assessed his immediate prospects of escape with his hands tied behind his back at somewhere between negligible and zero, so settled in for the ride.
10. The color white
‘Congrats Daddy. Or should we say, Mr. President?’
‘Still got a long road ahead Soph,’ said Ped, as his daughter released him from the embrace.
He’d secured 58 of the 95 delegates on offer in New York, extending his lead over Hunter to 40.
Patricia and Sophie had been blitzing Manhattan in a surreal celebrity bubble since the NatZ concert. The family had escaped back to Ped’s suite on the twenty-fourth floor of the Four Seasons, after the obligatory speeches, backslaps, high-fives, and endless Straight Up salutes of the victory party in the ballroom downstairs.
Sophie left to find her husband. Ped peeled off his jacket, loosened his tie, poured a bourbon, sank into the sofa. He kicked off his shoes, put an arm around his wife.
‘You OK, Sugah?’
‘Just tired Ped. Ready to get home. Back to the house.’
He buried his face in her hair.
‘If Soph’s right, your next house could be the color white.’
‘Now who’s getting ahead of themselves?’
Ped glanced at the TV on the wall. Barry Cosgrove was being interviewed. He reached for the remote.
‘Let’s see what the big-shot political commentator has to yap about.’
‘... no-show at the Don Francis lunch another example. He not only rips up checks in their faces, he more or less accuses the golden gooses of tax evasion, leaving Hunter to explain what she’s promised in return for the loaded money.
‘Mr. Garland flips the bird – to use his phrase – at the mainstream media, and leaps head-first into highly contentious issues like the death penalty. This guy’s breaking all the rules of political campaigning, yet he’s just trounced the woman almost everyone – me included – considered a lock-in for the nomination a month ago.
‘Kate Hunter’s the candidate the Republican elite groomed to take over after the last failure. To bring the party back to their center of reality. But what these primaries are showing us is voters have a very different take on reality. And haven’t shaken off the hankering for an anti-establishment candidate – particularly if he’s smart like Mr. Garland.
‘Time was when primaries were won by the candidate who raised the most money, kissed the most behinds – no exception. Voters see Congresswoman Hunter cocktailing it with billionaires and party insiders, as per the establishment playbook. Then they see Mr. Garland mixing with people on the street, hanging out in jeans at rock concerts. Even his social media posts are at a different level. Congresswoman Hunter’s messaging is stilted, conventional. Have you seen Ped Garland’s? They’re amusing, real, about everyday stuff. His online following has gone ballistic since Florida, and he’s being shared like there’s no tomorrow.’
Ped made a mental note to thank Jin and the Ciph.
The interviewer gave a subtle shake of the head.
‘Are you saying Ped Garland is the real thing? That there’s a chance a convicted drug deal... lawyer could win the nomination, go even further?’
‘Without the pardon he received from the White House, he wouldn’t have qualified to stand for the Public Service Commission in Georgia, let alone the Presidency.
‘As has been well documented, Mr. Garland secured his pardon because of his very public acceptance of responsibility and self-awareness of how serious his actions were, and the way he’s conducted himself since his release.
‘Conventional political wisdom would rule out someone with such a... colorful background. Mr. Garland seems to have turned it to his advantage. His book has been on the top of the New York Times bestseller list for weeks, is being seen by many as a kind of redemptive bible.
‘You ask if he’s the real thing? His remarkable political rise is on the back of what people are seeing publicly. I’m told privately he’s getting multiple approaches from governors, congressmen, senators offering to endorse him in return for positions after November. As his lead widens, he doesn’t need them so is blowing them off.’
The interviewer gave a hint of a smile.
‘So, this Straight Up line is more than a throwaway election slogan?’
Cosgrove shrugged.
‘Investigative journalists, Hunter’s team, and now I’m told investigators for the Democratic frontrunners have been searching for cracks in the Straight Up line 24/7 since Mr. Garland announced his candidacy. They’ve turned up little more than he’s admitted to in his book.’
‘A 40-point lead, under two months to go. Is it too early to call it for Ped Garland?’
Cosgrove, a veteran of many campaigns, smiled.
‘The man has 954 delegates after today. He needs 1237 to become the presumptive candidate. Seven weeks is an eternity in politics. Ask me in six.’
‘Fence-sitter,’ said Patricia, standing and heading to the bedroom.
‘You comin’, Ped, while your head can still fit through the door?’
‘Got a couple of loose ends to wrap up, Sugah. I’ll catch up with you real soon.’
He slipped through another door to the adjoining room, the private space set aside for him wherever they were on the road. The backroom. There was always a baby grand, his rocker recliner, three seats for guests.
One was occupied by Carl Tyler.
Ped poured a bourbon, sat at the piano.
‘Whadya got?’
‘Our plant in the Hunter camp’s been outed. But the damage is done, and Hunter’s not going to say anything because it makes her security look lax. She’s also sacked the head of her coms team, hired Sebastian Woodhouse.’
‘Who is?’
‘A muck raker, mud slinger, take your pick. Helped Leadbetter topple Johnson in the mid-terms.’
‘Should I be worried?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘Good. Any progress with Hunter’s other matter?’
‘Nothing solid yet, but we’re closing in.’
*****
MJ had raved about Hamilton all the way to Queens, where Mike had dropped her off at school. Conservative friends had advised against taking an eight-year-old to a musical about politics laced with sex and bad language. Zoe, not surprisingly, had told him to go for it.
A scattering of fucks and shits was hardly alien to kids in New York, and phrases like not being able to have intercourse over four sets of corsets sailed over MJ’s head.
Mike’s attempt at explaining the American Revolution on the way to the theater almost certainly met the same fate. Didn’t matter. The kid loved the dancing and the rap and was still churning out her favorite lines long after Mike had put her to bed in Uncle Robbie’s apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.
He would have preferred MJ focus on lyrics other than the ten-dollar founding father getting farther by working harder, but at this stage in the renewed relationship with his daughter, he’d take anything. He’d been an appalling part-time father during his time at Wooster, obsessed with his work and the chase, the clicks. Now Mia, his ex-partner, was giving him a second chance and he was determined not to blow it.
The current assignment might take him offshore for a while, but as soon as it was over, he’d get to spend an extended chunk of quality time with MJ. A year earlier that prospect would have scared the bejesus out of him. After the hug she’d given him as they said goodbye at the school gates, he looked forward to it.
Mike took the subway to Penn Station, then tried to phone Bec again. Still no answer. He tried calling the Little Banana. They hadn’t seen Mr. Duggan or Ms. Corelli, but neither had checked out of their rooms, nor showed up for breakfast.
‘Maybe they go to east or north for trip, Mr. Bullard? Many tourists do that.’
Mike told himself not to be paranoid. He replied to a message from one of the influencers he was cultivating – a travel vlogger who’d been posting about how drug violence had affected the places he’d visited.
Before boarding the Line 2 train to Harlem, he bought a print copy of the Times, craving some anchor to a safe and reliable – though tragically nostalgic – past.
Ped Garland was flavor of the month. There was a story about sales of his book heading, literally, straight up. There were quotes from an electrician in Brooklyn, a janitor from Little Falls, a sound engineer from the Bronx – all claiming to have screwed things up in their past, but seeing Garland’s book as shining a light, a reboot, a wake-up call.
Mike got off at 103rd St and walked up to Lexington Ave, trying Bec again while he waited to cross. Not even voicemail.
Garland’s drug foundation center was behind a church on East 103rd, but Mike struck the wall of true believers blocking the road before he’d got as far as Texas Chicken and Burgers. It was insane. Garland’s political opponents accused him of renting these crowds. Mike was seeing something different. Diversity.
