[Deborah Jones 02.0] Dark Waters Page 14

  ‘Jackie, please listen to me.’

  She stood up, arms folded, shaking her head. ‘No, you listen to me. I want to know how this happened. I mean…I mean she was a fucking kid, Harry. She was your secretary. What the hell were you thinking? It’s pathetic.’

  ‘I know it’s pathetic. I’m not denying that. But it happened. I was drunk. I messed up. And I have a child. A boy who needs me.’

  ‘Well, that’s just great. How lovely for you and your Latina mistress.’

  ‘She isn’t my mistress. It was just one night.’

  Jackie snorted. ‘I want answers. And I want them right now Why is this happening? What the hell is going on?’

  ‘In a word, blackmail.’

  The color drained from her face. ‘Tell me everything. Tell me about the affair. Tell me about the boy. That’s all I want to hear. And no more lies. I’m sick of lies.’

  Harry took a deep breath. For the next ten minutes, Jackie listened in stunned silence, occasionally covering her mouth with her hand. When he finished, he just sat and waited for her response.

  When Jackie spoke her voice was shaking. ‘Do you love her?’

  ‘I never loved her. I told you, it was a drunken one-night fling. I was an asshole.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘North end of Key Biscayne. Little condo.’

  ‘What’s the boy’s name?

  Harry sighed. ‘Andrew Donovan.’

  ‘School?’

  ‘He attends Ransom Everglades, in the Grove.’

  ‘Expensive. Harry, I never check what goes in or out. I trust you not to spend all our money. And it is our money, has been since we married.’

  ‘I wasn’t running away with your money. I was just wanting the best for my son.’

  Jackie’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘Is this because I didn’t want children? Is that at the root of this?’

  ‘No, it’s just the way things happened. Look, I didn’t mean for this to come out. I just wanted to forget it.’

  Jackie bowed her head and sighed.

  ‘There’s something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The guy who called the other night‌—‌he knew all about the little meeting that you arranged with Michael Cunningham before I became executive editor.’

  ‘I don’t believe it…’

  ‘These people mean business, I tell you. And I don’t know where it’s going to end.’

  ‘And where the hell is Juan while all this is going on?’

  ‘Should be back tomorrow, maybe the day after.’

  ‘Okay‌—‌this is how it’s going to work. I know about the boy, and the relationship, and I’ll have to deal with that. We will support him educationally, and buy the condo outright, and of course you must see him whenever you want. But never bring him over here, okay? He’s not my son.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Jackie tilted her head back in the balmy breeze. ‘Can you remember what you discussed with Michael at the meeting?’

  ‘Of course. He was asking me all these geopolitical questions, my views on Israel, military spending plans, NASA, civil liberties arguments versus national security, a whole range of stuff.’

  ‘And he liked what you said?’

  ‘He told me that he wished me well in my career, and said he hoped I’d be appointed executive editor of one of the country’s most important newspapers.’

  ‘Yes, but did he specifically say that he’d try and pull some strings?’

  ‘Not in so many words. He was careful not to give any assurances, but he did say that he would, and I’m quoting, “See what I can do.” I wish to God I hadn’t listened to you…’

  ‘I was just trying to help you, for God’s sake. Hindsight’s a wonderful thing, Harry. But we are where we are. This is what I propose. Forget the cops, I wouldn’t trust them as far as I could throw them. But the feds, they’re something else.’

  ‘I agree, Jackie. But if these guys find out, who the hell knows what will happen? Apparently our calls are being monitored, for chrissakes. I can’t survive if this shit really hits the fan.’

  ‘We have to deal with this. FBI office in North Miami Beach, just head straight there, no calls, nothing. Speak to Ron Martinez.’

  ‘I can’t right now I’m flying to New York for the conference tomorrow‌—‌you know that. I can’t miss it.’

  ‘Can’t you cancel?’

  Harry shook his head.

  ‘Make it the day after, then. The sooner this is sorted, the better.’

  44

  Nathan Stone’s heart sank at the sight of the seven-storey monstrosity of the South Florida Evaluation and Treatment Center. He pulled up at the visitor’s parking lot and, after being frisked by a surly black guard, he was escorted to a visitor’s room by a ruddy-faced middle-aged white man, a rarity in Miami these days.

  The place reeked of disinfectant, bad cooking and coffee.

  Helen was sitting cross-legged on a seat. She stretched out her arms when Nathan walked in. ‘My handsome big brother,’ she said. ‘My, you look smart.’

  Nathan was wearing a sharp pale blue suit and black slip-on leather shoes.

  ‘You have a date later, huh?’

  Nathan leaned down to kiss his sister. She smelled of cigarette smoke and stale sweat. ‘Yeah… I’m meeting a girl tonight. But I had to meet my number one girl first, right?’

  His sister laughed and started fiddling with her hair. ‘So, do you wanna tell me about her? Where did you meet?’

  ‘In a bar. And we got chatting. Name’s Rosa. She’s from Cuba. Very pretty.’

  ‘You got a picture?’

  ‘We only just met. I promised I’d take her for a meal tonight.’

  ‘Treat her nice, Nathan. Promise?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Beautiful suit. Where did you get that?’

  ‘Made-to-measure. Tony Rizzo’s in Bal Harbor.’

  ‘Well, if that doesn’t do it for her I don’t know what will.’

  Nathan leaned over and held her hand. ‘What about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘What’ve you been up to?’

  ‘I’ve started art-therapy classes.’

  ‘Hey, that’s great. So, what do you paint?’

  ‘Mostly pictures of you. Oil paintings.’

  ‘Can I see them?’

  ‘I’ve not really finished yet. But I will soon. You can hang them in your apartment in South Beach.’

  Nathan had created a complete imaginary world for Helen, one in which her brother did real-estate deals, advised governments on social policy and had a box at Dolphin Stadium.

  ‘Tell me more about Rosa.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like what she does for a living?’

  ‘She works in real estate, too. High-end Miami condos. In fact, I’m thinking about investing in a new development at Wynwood.’

  Helen smiled and gazed out of a window, at the barbed wire round the perimeter glistening in the sun.

  ‘What does she look like?’

  ‘Very pretty… Very religious.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good. I pray every day.’

  ‘What do you pray for?’

  ‘I pray that one day you meet the right girl. And maybe she’ll visit me too. One day. That would be neat.’

  Nathan looked into his sister’s tired eyes and smiled. ‘What have I always told you, Helen?’

  ‘You’ll never leave me.’

  ‘I swear to God, I will never leave you or forget you.’

  ‘I’d like to meet Rosa. Can you bring her?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Helen smiled and closed her eyes.

  ‘I was up in New York recently. On business.’

  ‘Did you visit the old neighborhood?’

  Nathan nodded.

  ‘Still the same?’

  ‘It’s certainly not the shithole we knew.’

  ‘Did you visit daddy’s grave?’

&nb
sp; ‘You have to be kidding.’

  Helen’s eyes closed for a moment. ‘Every day is so long, Nathan. They give me my pills, and I watch TV.’

  ‘American Idol. You ever watch that?’

  Nathan shook his head.

  ‘It’s crazy. There’s this English guy, Simon Cowell, who is so mean to everyone. I can’t believe he’s allowed to say such things about people who are just trying their best.’

  ‘It’s the way of the world.’

  Helen got that faraway look in her eyes. Then tears began to roll down her cheeks. ‘I sometimes think of mummy. I don’t blame her for leaving us.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘You know what I remember about her?’

  Nathan shook his head.

  ‘Her wavy hair.’

  ‘What else do you remember about her?’

  ‘She was always crying.’

  • • •

  Half an hour later, Nathan was cruising through the heart of Little Havana, a little slice of old Cuba on Calle Ocho‌—‌8th Street‌—‌between 12th and 27nd Avenues. All the signs were in Spanish. He wound down his window and a caught a strong whiff of shrimp wafting from a big seafood restaurant. Old men sat smoking outside neon-lit bars.

  He spotted Rosa, sitting demurely outside Domino Park under some palms, and pulled up to the kerb. She pecked him on the cheek as she climbed in beside him. She smelled of expensive perfume.

  ‘Thought you were going to stand me up,’ she said.

  ‘Why would I do anything so stupid?’

  ‘I know what you Americans are like. You have a little fun, then you don’t wanna know.’

  Nathan smiled, feeling crazier than he had for days.

  ‘So, where you taking me?’

  ‘It’s a surprise.’

  ‘I like surprises.’

  Nathan took the South Dixie Highway, switched on some Georgia Satellites and relaxed to the rocking blues riffs. He stole a glance at Rosa who was smiling broadly and running her hand through her wavy black hair.

  They headed past affluent Kendall, then the Palmetto golf course, on into the south Florida night.

  ‘Nathan, you mind telling me where we’re going?’

  ‘How does an exclusive restaurant, the other side of Florida City, sound?’

  ‘Great. As long as you’re paying.’

  Florida City laid claim to be the southernmost city in America which was not an island. They drove past seedy hotels, motels and diners. Soon the last remnants of civilization had disappeared in his rear-view mirror. Ten minutes later Nathan turned along a dirt road and pulled up in a glade of pines, headlights on, engine still running.

  ‘What are we stopping here for, Nathan? You run out of gas?’

  ‘Wait there a second.’

  He got out of the car, walked to the back and opened the trunk. Inside, the plastic sheeting was in place, along with the rope and some duct tape.

  45

  The investigation was back to square one after the explanation from Cunningham’s deputy. It completely threw Deborah. But two days later Robert Sommers made contact, saying he wanted to help.

  He got a note to Deborah as before, in her mailbox, asking her to meet up that night at Delano’s Blue Door restaurant in the heart of South Beach.

  Deborah didn’t think it made sense. Surely, the scandal and the embarrassing pictures emblazoned across the Enquirer and the Internet would have sent most men scurrying for cover.

  So why not Sommers?

  The restaurant was located on Collins Avenue, a fashionable hang-out. It was decadence writ large: white candles, billowing floor-to-ceiling white drapes, high ceilings and a stunning white grand piano. Not surprisingly, it was a magnet for those who wanted to be seen, including movie and pop stars, not to mention a sprinkling of supermodels and trust-fund kids, showing off.

  Deborah and Jamille joined Sommers on the outdoor verandah overlooking a peaceful garden, which bizarrely included a life-size chessboard.

  After they’d ordered drinks, Sommers, wearing a beige linen suit and pale blue novelty tie, asked for the latest on Deborah’s investigation. He listened intently as she gave him an update following the conversation with Cunningham’s number two.

  ‘Leave aside what happened to me for just a moment, if that’s possible,’ he said. ‘I’ve got my own thoughts on that. But all this talk of a mole within the ranks at Langley sounds like the paranoid ravings emanating from Langley during the Cold War. Puts me in mind of James Angleton. You remember him?’

  Deborah nodded. ‘CIA’s counter-intelligence chief in the 1960s and 1970s, right?’

  ‘Certifiable, by all accounts,’ Sommers said. ‘He was also an obsessive when it came to internal spy-hunts. He saw Communists everywhere.’ Sommers sipped his glass of Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon and smiled, looking at Deborah. ‘At Langley the joke used to do the rounds that Angleton ended up believing he was a goddamn spy as well. He was there for thirty years in this crazy delusional state. And that paranoia spread and became endemic within the agency.’

  Deborah nodded. ‘So are you suggesting that now we’re talking about disinformation rather than paranoia?’

  Sommers smiled. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘A classic case. The object being to confuse and mislead, to conceal what has really happened.’

  ‘I can quite see why your publisher got cold feet,’ Sommers said. ‘But I don’t understand why Cunningham palmed you off with his number two.’

  He went quiet as a handsome young Latino waiter came over to take their orders. Deborah chose crab cake and Maine lobster. Sommers chose pan-seared lamb chops and Jamille plumped for fillet of sea bass.

  Before resuming the conversation Sommers waited until the young man politely collected the menus. ‘The question is where do you go from here, Deborah?’

  ‘Well,’ she said, putting down her glass of Perrier, ‘I checked up on Cunningham and I noticed that he used to be the CIA’s top guy in Guatemala, in the 1980s. The agency was lurking in the shadows as murders, abductions and disappearances of any dissenters were carried out by those in power. No one seriously doubts that the CIA was turning a blind eye to a regime they were backing. There were also allegations that they secretly boosted aid to the military. Cunningham might be a breath of fresh air, but he has skeletons in his closet. And it doesn’t require a great stretch of the imagination to realize that the CIA was responsible for the deaths of John Hudson and Richard Turner, does it?’

  ‘Let’s get back to some facts,’ Sommers said. ‘The documents you have are crucial to this whole thing. I don’t believe for one second they are fakes. But if you are going to make this stick, Deborah, the best plan of action is perseverance. You’ve given them something to think about, and I suggest you leave this ball in Michael Cunningham’s court and let him stew’

  ‘What about authentication?’ Deborah asked.

  Sommers drained his glass of red wine and smiled. ‘One step at a time, Deborah. Let them make the next move.’

  Just after one A.M., as Deborah awoke from a doze to find the television still on, CNN were showing the latest outrage in Iraq‌—‌a multiple suicide bombing in Baghdad.

  Her cellphone rang. It was Robert Sommers. ‘Can we talk?’

  Deborah switched off the TV with the remote, not wishing to wake Jamille who was sleeping in the spare room. ‘Do you know what time it is, Robert?’

  ‘I can’t sleep, like you. Listen to this. I just received a very interesting call from a friend of mine who knows Cunningham. He says that everything that has happened can be traced back to this one guy who is known to those within Langley. I asked him to be a bit more precise. Apparently this guy was part of the NCS.’

  Deborah knew that meant National Clandestine Service. Sommers had explained that before. ‘Not good, right?’

  ‘This guy has been all over. He’s worked psychological ops in Central America, Iraq, Eastern Europe. He’s a real hard case.’

 
‘So where is he now?’ Deborah asked, knowing the answer.

  ‘Right here. In Florida.’

  ‘And they reckon this is the same guy who killed John Hudson?’

  ‘Yes. Deborah… I believe he is following orders from those at the very top.’

  Deborah said nothing.

  ‘Question is, is this more disinformation to put you off the scent, to stop you going after Cunningham? To put the frighteners on. I think you need to take great care.’

  Deborah shivered. ‘I’m starting to feel like a fly in a spider’s web.’

  ‘I think you should get out of your condo. You’re a sitting target. Look what happened to me. That was a cute set-up. Trust me‌—‌they’ll stop at nothing.’

  46

  Less than an hour later Deborah had packed a bag, picked up some essentials including the documents and her laptop, and was being driven through the near-deserted dark streets to the relative safety of Jamille’s small house in affluent suburban Pinecrest, a hundred yards from Gulliver Preparatory School.

  She managed to grab a couple of hours’ sleep on the couch before being woken just after dawn, when Jamille’s kids piled into the living room and switched on the TV. The news showed footage of the Hyatt and the compromising photos of Sommers. In a strange place, with Sam still in hospital, Deborah felt that her whole life had become surreal.

  After showering and changing, she and Jamille went along to Hudson’s funeral at Woodlawn Park Cemetery in Little Havana, amid the splendor of Gothic statues, granite angels, and marble crypts. Hundreds of mourners attended. Scores of them were in their late teens and early twenties, some dressed casually, probably college friends of John.

  As the coffin was lowered into the rock-hard earth, Bill Hudson, dressed in an immaculate dark suit, black tie and white shirt, wept openly, and his wife Kate fell to her knees.

  The sky was the most perfect blue, but the sound of a mother’s helpless grief in the still, humid air sounded like the wail of a wounded animal.

  • • •

  Faith called Deborah later that afternoon.

  ‘I don’t want any excuses, girl,’ she said. ‘I mean it.’

  Deborah laughed. ‘I’ll be there, don’t worry’