The Last Refuge, page 16
"We agreed on three grand for the fee, Tom," I snapped. "That contract stipulates a 50 percent kill fee. That's fifteen hundred, not a thousand."
"Oh, yeah, that's right," Tom said. I could hear the disappointment in his voice. "You know how bad my math is, Pete. Fifteen hundred, okay?"
"Yeah, sure," I said. I heard the frustration in my own voice. The line went silent for a moment, then I worked some sarcasm into my words to replace the disappointment.
"Hey, Tom," I said. "Guess the real tragedy in all this is how it screws up your chances with the Stanning widow, huh?"
"My heart is broken, Pete," he said, his sorrow unconvincing. "She was the love of my life."
Then the line went dead.
§
The desktop make a cracking noise as I slammed my fist down on it. I sat staring at it, expecting it to split in two. It stayed upright. I seethed inside. My breathing was hard and angry. I raised my fist to see if I could take the desk down in two blows when the phone rang.
It was Jo, spitting with rage.
"I just got a nasty little visit," she said.
"Don't tell me. A couple of federal agents, right?"
"Just one, from CID," Jo said. "How'd you know?"
"CID?" I raced through my mental dictionary of military acronyms. "Criminal Investigative Division? He said he was with the army CID?"
"Yeah, that's what he said," Jo answered. "I'm not sure I believe him, though. Little prick. He wanted to know what I was doing hanging around a reporter. He said I was endangering national security. He knew about me trying to access the Qari files on the computer and asking questions around here about it."
"What do you mean you're not sure he was CID? Did he show you any ID?"
"Of course," Jo said. "I made him. But you can buy stuff like that in mail order catalogues these days. I got the feeling he was CIA. Pete, do you know something about this?"
"I think so," I said. "First, tell me what he said."
"He wanted me to stop asking about Qari. National security, he said. And he wanted me to stop talking to you. He said talking to you could ruin my army career."
Jo laughed lightly before continuing. Hearing her laugh gave me a strange, warm feeling despite what we were discussing.
"I told the son-of-a-bitch my career was probably already over because of my wound. Then he turned around and threatened me with a bad discharge. At that point, I invited him out of my office with a few well-chosen four-letter words."
"Good for you, Jo."
"Peter, are you going to tell me what's going on?"
So I told her, describing how Sidney Clipper was roughed up and how the magazine was threatened with a tax audit and killed my assignment. When I finished, the line was silent. When Jo finally spoke, her voice was low and distant. She almost sounded frightened.
"What are you going to do now, Peter?" she asked. "You're -you're not dropping this, are you?"
She made it sound like dropping the story was tantamount to dropping her. And from somewhere deep inside of me, I knew I wasn't going to do that. I knew I couldn't.
"I'll just look for someone else to sell it to," I said. My voice trembled, and I cleared my throat before continuing. "I don't know just who yet, but someone. It's a good story."
"It's a good story," Jo repeated sadly. "I'll see you tonight?"
"Sure."
"Good," Jo said. The line was silent again and I figured it was about time to hang up when Jo remembered something. "Oh, I did some checking on Roger Sherman, about what your Israeli friend told you."
"Yeah?"
"Before Sherman retired, he was assigned to ConEl as project officer for CCOMS," she said. "That just meant he oversaw the implementation of the contract. What's curious though is that ConEl hired him after he retired. Now that used to be done a lot, but Congress passed a law in the Eighties prohibiting it."
"The revolving door law," I said, remembering something Sidney Clipper told me.
"Yeah, but no one raised a stink about it. Strange, huh?"
"Strange," I said.
We made plans to meet at my place that evening, then she hung up. I stared out the window trying to figure what to do next. The sun had taken over the sky now, and it shined yellow through the trees. The momma bird and her chick were back. I watched her feed her youngling until a jet thundered overhead and sent both mother and child flittering through the branches. I finally picked up the phone and dialed the number for the Los Angeles bureau of the newsweekly I worked for sometimes.
"Pete, how are you doing?" Marsha Hand, the bureau chief, spoke with the same New York inflection as Special Agent Sanders. "Listen, New York loved your last file."
"Great," I said. "I think I have something they should love even more."
I synopsized the Qari story for her, providing just enough detail to entice but not enough to let them follow up on their own. Michael Larrs wasn't the only journalist I didn't trust.
"That sounds hot, Peter," Marsha said. "You're sure of your information?" I told her I was. "Then let me call New York and see what they say. I'll get right back to you."
I put an Eagles tape on the stereo and played it softly while I made coffee and waited for Marsha to call back. When the phone finally rang, I heard a New York accent on the other end, but it wasn't Marsha Hand.
"Brandt, Sanders. Had any visitors lately?"
I slumped in the chair behind the desk and sighed. "You, too?"
"Oh, you have been visited?"
"Not me," I said. "But everyone I know seems to. What happened?"
"A couple stiffs with dark glasses and radios stuck in their ears took me in with my agent in charge and read us the riot act."
"Did they say who they were with?"
"No."
"So?"
"Not feebies," Sanders said. "No one legit, in my opinion. But all I can say is they were the type of guys who don't have official personnel files. I'm really beginning to wonder if I'm on the right side."
"What did they say?"
"Bastards knew I met you at the deli," Sander said. "They must've been tailing you. Did you know that?"
"I had suspicions," I said. "What did they tell you, Sanders? Short version."
"Short order? I don't talk to you anymore."
"You're talking to me now."
"Fuck them. And I told them that." Sanders lowered his voice. "I just wanted to warn you, let you know what was happening. You know our friend from Tel Aviv?"
"Tygard?"
"Yeah. Well, they must have seen him talking to you, too. He called me this morning. Seems he's been declared persona non grata. He's got a week to leave the country. Just thought you should know what's going down."
I thanked Sanders, and meant it. The line beeped; my call-waiting telling me another call was trying to ring through. I wondered who else could be calling me to say they had had a visit. I let it beep.
"Is it safe talking to me?" I asked. "They might have your phone tapped."
"Like I said Brandt, fuck them." Sanders chuckled. Even his laugh had an accent. "Besides, I'm calling from a phone booth uptown. Don't let the fuckers get you down."
CHAPTER 22
I PRESSED THE phone button and answered the call on hold. It was a telephone solicitor again, offering me subscriptions I didn't need. The Texas drawl was slow and casual.
Locking up the bungalow, I walked down to the beach, found a pay phone I hadn't used recently, and dialed Fred Danbury's number. I asked for Fred, but the woman who answered the phone said he was out of the office.
"I'm sorry," I said, "but Fred just called me, wanted me to call him back. The name's Brandt. Peter Brandt."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Brandt," the woman said. "But Fred left this morning and said he wouldn't be back until late this afternoon. I assure you; if he were here, I would put you through. This office is not in the habit of putting people off. It's not good business, you know."
I apologized and hung up. I stared at the phone, not certain what had happened. Were the persons harassing Sidney Clipper, Jo, Sanders, and Tygard now beginning to play with my own mind? Did they somehow imitate Fred's voice to make a fool of me? Or, perhaps, to let me know they knew who my most intimate source was? Or was the call from a genuine telemarketer who simply sounded like the ex-CIA pilot?
Maybe I was just going crazy from the stress.
Then I turned and saw a mountain of a man leaning against the small wall that separated the beach from the boardwalk. He was watching me while gray smoke swirled around him from his usual little cigar. His salt-and-pepper moustache stretched across his face in a grin.
"Hey, Pete! Como esta?"
"I thought you just called me?"
"I did." Fred pulled a flip-top cellular phone out of his pocket and held it up proudly, shaking his head with wonder. "Y'know, all those years with The Company and we never had anything like these here things."
"You called me on that?"
"Yep."
"From here?"
Fred shook his head. "Nope. From across the street of your place. Then I followed you here. Y'know, son, you really ought to be more cognizant of your surroundings, hear?"
"Fred, what the hell are you doing here?"
Fred was dressed in dark slacks, alligator cowboy boots, and a light blue pullover polo shirt that stretched across his round gut. His hair was thick and dusty with gray, and his closely cropped moustache ended in points aimed sharply downward. He always reminded me of an older Stacy Keach.
He watched a young beauty in a low-slung bikini pass, smiled at her with his teeth showing, the cigar sticking straight out like a phallus. The girl passed without seeming to notice either of us. Then he turned to me.
"You got your ass in a sling, partner," he said, motioning me to walk. "I feel responsible."
"Responsible? How?"
"I got a call last night from my buddy on the Middle East desk," Fred said, his eyes glued to the skimpy triangle of cloth that covered the girl's rear end. "He said Roger Sherman was stirring things up over you. Seems Sherman got upset over a visit you and some broad paid him, and called out the cavalry. They're out to shut you down, Pete."
"Too late," I said. "Did and done."
I told him about the visits to Sidney, Jo and Sanders, and about losing my magazine assignment. When I finished, the cigar hung loosely in his lips, his eyes still on the girl ahead. She turned and glanced at him. He smiled again. She returned the smile but hurried on.
"Damn," Fred said.
I wasn't certain whether the oath was directed at the visitations or the girl.
"Your friends must be pissed at you," I said. "Sorry I got you involved."
Fred took the cigar from his mouth and spat gray smoke.
"Hell, Pete," he said. "That's why I'm here. Like I told you, I feel responsible."
I watched his face, trying to fathom what he meant. It was impossible. Fred's face looked carved from rock. I held my hand out, stopped him and made him face me.
"What are you telling me, Fred?"
"My buddy's just delighted," he said. "The whole agency's just happier than an old bull put to stud."
He motioned me off the boardwalk, and we sat on the short beach wall that looked out over the ocean. Fred took one last lingering look at the girl in the bikini before she disappeared into the crowd.
"Now I don't know everything there is to know about this here Project Qari you've been asking about, but I do know The Company was against it from the start," he said, taking the cigar from his lips. "The pros all thought it carried too much baggage, that there'd be hell to pay if word of it ever leaked out. So the White House went out of channels to get this thing rolling. From what my friend says, it was a royal screw up from the start. Made Iran-Contra look like the Normandy invasion. They don't think too highly of Colonel Roger Sherman."
I suddenly felt like an old whore, used and abused.
"The CIA wanted Qari exposed," I said. "That's it, isn't it? They've been using me."
Fred stuck the cigar back in his mouth, shoved his hands into his pockets and nodded slowly.
"They wanted the shit to hit the fan so they could move in and discredit Sherman and others like him," he said. "You hear this stuff about taking covert ops away from The Company?"
I nodded.
"If Qari's exposed, The Company can show it's the only government agency reliable and responsible enough to run covert ops," he said. "All these new spook agencies, most of them not even on the books—they ain't my kind of people, Pete."
Fred dropped the cigar on the walkway and crushed it with his boot. He looked out at the ocean, his face hard, the muscles in his jaw rigid.
"These guys don't have any rule book to play by, no oversight committee," he said. "It's like the old cowboy days in the Agency. They don't care who they hurt." He shook his head. "I tell you, it scares even me."
"If it scares you, Fred, imagine how I feel."
"You should, too, partner."
A shiver ran through me even though the air was warm. I didn't need Fred to tell me I should be scared. I realized I'd been scared for days. But now I knew why.
"Sherman and his buddies must've put the narcs up to raiding my place," I said. "When that didn't work, they decided to dry up my sources."
Fred look at me, his eyes narrow slits. I told him about the brick planted in my toilet and the street team raid. I glanced down the beach at the public restrooms and wondered if the trash there had been emptied yet.
"Sounds like Sherman," Fred said. "Rumors were he was involved with moving some shit during Iran-Contra."
Fred took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. He glanced at his watch.
"Look, partner," he said. "Things get too hot, you call me, hear? Like I said, I feel responsible. You need me, I'll cover your six. Deal?"
I nodded and thanked him.
"Meantime, Pete, you watch your ass."
§
I walked back to the bungalow, detouring to check my box at the post office. Bills, self-addressed and stamped envelopes bearing rejected story queries, and a large manila envelope with no return address. I paid them little attention as I walked the rest of the way home. My mind reeled with the events of the day and Fred's warning.
There comes a time in preparing every story when a reporter has to decide whether it's really worth pursuing. Sometimes after days of research, you simply determine there's no real story there. You drop it and cut your losses. Sometimes, pursuing a story is just too costly in time and money, a major consideration for self-employed journalists like me who only earn piecemeal pay for the stories they sell. Other times, a story was just too damn dangerous to pursue.
In this case, there was definitely a story to tell, but no way to tell it. It would be useless to pursue it unless I found a new buyer. Perhaps Marsha Hand would come through. Yet I had to admit to myself I was getting pretty spooked. It would be more than simple to just turn my back and walk away from it, it'd be the smart thing to do. No one would think the lesser of me, I told myself.
Or would they?
I heard Jo's voice asking me again if I was going to drop the story, and I knew then there was no way I could drop it. Instead, I hurried home hoping Marsha had called.
The little red light on the message machine blinked at me indicating she had. I tossed the mail on the desk unopened and pushed the playback button.
"Pete, Marsha Hand. Call me."
Her message didn't make me hopeful. I slumped in the desk chair and dialed the L.A. number.
"Sorry, Pete," Marshal told me. "New York is shy about Iraqi stories now. There's just been so much recently. Readers are getting bored."
"Bored?" I heard my voice rising. I was tired, angry, and losing control of my emotions. "Jesus, Marsha. This story's bigger than Watergate "
"Pete, the home editors said if you wanted to file a story advisory they'd look at it," Marsha said. "If they thought it was worth pursuing, though, they'd pass it on to the Washington bureau. You'd get a finder's fee, of course."
"A finder's fee?"
I gripped the phone so tightly I could hear the plastic cracking. I took a deep breath and tried to control my anger. I couldn't afford losing my contract with the news magazine. It provided most of my income.
"Listen, Marsha," I said, trying to loosen my jaw so my words sounded normal. "Thanks for trying. But I think I'll take this elsewhere, if I can."
"Sure, Pete," she said. "But you know how it is."
"Yeah, if it's not happening in New York or DC, it's not happening."
"That about sums it up."
When the line went dead, I stared out the window, the phone still grasped tightly in my hand. I racked my brain for another possible market. But to find one, I would have to go through an elaborate and time-consuming querying process. Then I remembered the one standing offer I had, the one I had been trying not to remember. Reluctantly, I put the phone down, and rummaged through the desk drawer for the card Larrs gave me. He was in, but getting ready to go out with a camera crew to do an interview. I told him I was ready to accept his offer.
"Oh, really," he said, feigning disinterest. "San Diego Life screw you over?"
"You offered me more money."
"That was then, Brandt."
I didn't need to play games with Larrs.
"Fine," I said, pulling my own bluff. "Then I'll just take this to the newsweekly I string for."
"Not so fast, Brandt," Larrs said quickly. "I'm just being cautious here. I don't even know what I'm buying. But I made you an offer, and I'll stand by it—if I think the story's worth it."
"It's worth more," I said.
"Good." Larrs' voice changed to the ah-shucks-I'm-just-one- of-the-guys diction he used on air. "Look, I trust you, Brandt. Really I do. You're a damn good reporter and I respect you for that. Just don't try screwing me like you did before."
"This is business, Larrs," I told him. "And it's a story that'll make us famous."
"Us?"
"I want half credit as well as cash."
"Is it that big?"
"Bigger."
The line was silent for a while. I let it stay that way.
