[Deborah Jones 02.0] Dark Waters Page 17

  Afterwards, he showered in his plush en-suite bathroom, put on clean clothes‌—‌smart suit, shirt‌—‌which McNally had got one of his men to pick up along with Deborah’s things.

  She was still asleep. Sam decided to let her be.

  Just after seven, Sam took breakfast with McNally and his wife on the deck, overlooking the choppy blue waters of the Cut. Scrambled egg, rye toast, strong coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice set him up for the day.

  ‘Spoke to the cops over an hour ago,’ McNally said, ‘and I hear that forensics can’t trace the blood left in Deborah’s condo. Not a trace.’

  ‘So this guy has no previous‌—‌is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Highly unlikely.’

  ‘So what, then?’

  ‘The guy’s a ghost, used by the military to do their dirty work.’

  ‘A ghost?’

  ‘That’s right. Never leave a trace, because they don’t even exist.’

  54

  Just after midday Deborah awoke. She felt slightly dazed. She and Sam had finally consummated their relationship. After all these years. It took her a few moments to get her bearings in the strange bed as memories of the early hours flooded back. She stared at the white ceiling, fan whirring gently, as a soft buttercup light filtered through the partly open drapes. Then she took a deep breath and smiled.

  She got up and went into her bathroom, keen to see how she had changed. Her dark brown eyes were sparkling. She had feared physical intimacy for so long it was like a mental block. But now, for the first time in a long time, she realized she’d slept soundly without waking in a cold sweat. Just the comfort of lying skin-to-skin with the man she loved, falling asleep in his arms. She liked how she looked in the mirror.

  After a long hot shower she put on a white T-shirt, faded jeans and her favorite sneakers. Then she tied her hair back and wandered out onto the deck.

  Sam was reading that day’s Herald. He looked up and smiled. ‘Hey, there she is. The Sleeping Beauty.’ He stood up and gave her a big hug.

  ‘Now, what can I get you to drink?’ Andrea appeared as if by magic. ‘Some iced tea, coffee?’

  ‘Iced tea would be great.’

  ‘Something to eat?’

  ‘Any chance of a croissant with strawberry jam‌—‌is that all right? It’s my favorite.’

  ‘Coming right up.’

  ‘So,’ Deborah said, ‘have there been any developments while I’ve been catching up with my beauty sleep?’ She sat down in a chair next to Sam and kicked off her shoes.

  Sam handed her the file on Henke. She scanned the pages quickly, absorbing the information like a sponge.

  ‘He’s our guy,’ she said. ‘He’s behind this. I knew it.’

  ‘Thomas thinks we should get in his face. Shake the tree, so to speak.’

  ‘Risky strategy,’ Deborah said.

  Sam stroked her feet. It felt good. ‘I think it’d be best if we hang around here until this blows over.’

  ‘I don’t have a problem with that,’ said Deborah. And she didn’t.

  ‘I called Harry to give him an update of what happened. Told him we’d taken you to a secret location.’

  ‘Thanks for last night, Sam. It was lovely.’

  ‘This is us from now on. No more hiding and living separately.’

  ‘Let’s start looking forward. And let’s start thinking about our future together.’

  ‘Sounds perfect,’ Sam said and kissed her on the lips.

  ‘How’s the head?’

  ‘Like new.’ He beamed. ‘Even if I still look like shit.’

  ‘So, tell me the latest?’

  ‘Harry called to say he’s thinking of you.’

  ‘I appreciate that.’

  ‘To be honest, I think Harry’s been really shaken up by what’s happened.’

  ‘It hasn’t been my favorite time either. Till now.’

  ‘Would you mind coming with me to see Bill Hudson later?’

  ‘It’ll have to be after the big game with Hialeah this afternoon.’

  ‘You can’t be serious, Deborah. This afternoon? With everything that’s going on? Is there no one else to take your place?’

  ‘Sam, if I’m not there in precisely two hours’ time, Faith will be kicking my ass all over Palmer Park. Trust me, it’s not up for discussion. Besides, Jamille will be with me every step of the way.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. What about you? Are you sure you feel up to heading across to see Bill?’

  ‘I’m fine. Really.’

  Deborah smiled. ‘Then that’s settled. I’ll play the game, and then head straight back here.’

  ‘Thomas thought it would be best if we stayed put. But he’s assigned us a special driver cum bodyguard.’

  ‘He’ll have to be pretty tough to keep me away from you.’

  • • •

  The broiling sun made conditions for the crunch top-of-the-table clash with Hialeah particularly tough. Drenched in sweat, neither team held back‌—‌fierce tackles were the order of the day. Overtown were set up to frustrate their more skillful opponents, soaking up wave after wave of attack. Running hard and moving the ball quickly out of defense to their two speedy wingers, they suddenly had Hialeah on the back foot, urged on by Faith and scores of loyal fans on the sidelines. But just before half-time Overtown were caught in a classic counter-attack. Hialeah scored from a deflected shot on the edge of the Overtown penalty box, their defense nowhere to be found.

  Wild celebrations on the touchline spilled over into a heated exchange between Faith and the backroom staff of Hialeah after the goalscorer‌—‌swigging a bottle of water a few moments later‌—‌spat it out over Faith’s sneakers.

  A war of words threatened to turn nasty, but the referee and the two linesmen intervened before things escalated.

  After a ferocious half-time team talk from Faith, the Overtown girls’ fitness came to the fore, getting the upper hand as the Hialeah players visibly wilted under the unrelenting sun.

  A diagonal pass from Deborah to Jamille resulted in a blatant trip, which led to a penalty. Deborah sent the keeper the wrong way, putting Overtown level with only twenty minutes to go.

  Then, in the dying seconds of the game, Deborah laid on a defense-splitting pass for Martha Johnston, Overton’s lightning-quick full-back, to hammer home a screaming thirty-yard shot into the right-hand top corner, past the despairing efforts of the Hialeah goalkeeper.

  The referee’s whistle blew, sparking a mini-invasion from Faith and a dozen or so Overtown fans holding Martha aloft. Deborah’s team had clinched the title, with two games to spare. Faith was laughing and crying at the same time, all the months of coaching and bawling and shouting paying off with her first league title.

  But as the celebrations died down half a dozen young Hispanic men, some sporting Latin King gang tattoos, gathered around them, smoking reefer, talking loudly. They wore black and gold vests, slightly askew matching baseball caps with a gold crown logo, baggy pants and gold necklaces.

  ‘Walk right past them,’ Jamille said as she led Deborah to the changing rooms. ‘Don’t let them bother you.’

  Deborah looked straight ahead, focused on the peeling white paint on the dressing-room door, trying to block out the menacing stares.

  ‘What you girls doing tonight?’ one of them said ‘You turning tricks?’

  ‘Get lost, asshole,’ Faith snapped.

  One of the group reached out to touch her breasts. Faith lashed out, which only made the gang laugh. ‘Don’t be like that, ho.’ A few high fives.

  ‘Just keep walking,’ Jamille said, ushering the rest of the team forward.

  The fattest member of the gang, with pockmarked face and bloodshot eyes, barged forward and reached out to grope Jamille between the legs. ‘How does that feel, bitch? That feel good?’

  In the blink of an eye, Jamille grabbed his right fist and twisted the boy’s arm up his back. Then she kic
ked his legs away from under him and he collapsed in a heap, like a baby elephant.

  The gang burst out laughing at their friend’s embarrassment.

  ‘Do that again, fat boy,’ Jamille said, ‘and I’ll break your fucking arm.’ She eyeballed the ragtag group of friends. None of them looked so cocky. ‘Any of you wannabe gangbangers want some of what he got? Do you?’

  A scar-faced youth with a goatee just shook his head as he tossed away the butt of his reefer.

  Deborah and the rest of the girls headed to the dressing room as the gang drifted away.

  As she was being driven back to the Fisher Island ferry by Jamille, Deborah reflected that the mood of euphoria had been soured, the day spoiled.

  ‘Don’t worry about those guys,’ Jamille said. ‘They’re just assholes. Don’t let them get to you.’

  ‘Easier said than done.’

  • • •

  Later in the afternoon Sam and Deborah were ushered through the gatehouse of Bill Hudson’s home. He was standing at the door waiting for them, eyes sunken and a glass of red wine in his hand.

  ‘Glad you could make it,’ Bill said. He gave Sam a big hug. ‘You okay, big guy?’

  ‘I need to brush up on my martial arts, that’s for sure.’ Sam put an arm around Deborah’s waist. ‘Sorry we weren’t able to come sooner.’

  Bill reached out and shook Deborah’s hand. ‘Let’s go inside.’

  The house was all high ceilings, antique French furniture and panoramic views. The three of them were gathered together in the black granite kitchen. An eerie silence pervaded.

  ‘Where’s Kate?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Not doing too good. She’s taken John’s death even harder than I have.’

  ‘Look, maybe it’s not such a good idea to visit now.’

  ‘Kate’s on heavy medication. And I need someone to speak to. Police don’t seem at all interested. Think it’s a slam-dunk suicide.’

  ‘All I can say is that we’re joining up the dots. Slowly. But I’ve got nothing concrete to tell you yet, Bill.’

  The buzzer on a phone attached to the kitchen wall rang. ‘It’s the gatehouse,’ Bill said. He picked up the phone. ‘Hudson.’ The color drained immediately from his face. He covered the mouthpiece. ‘It’s a guy from the morgue. Delivering a few of John’s personal belongings. I couldn’t face going down there. So they said they’d drop them off instead.’

  ‘Tell him you’ll pick it up at the gate,’ Sam said. ‘Don’t let anyone in.’

  • • •

  Two minutes later, Bill returned with a padded brown envelope under one arm. He placed it on the black granite worktop but didn’t open it.

  Sam put his arm around Bill’s shoulders.

  ‘Mr Hudson, if you want we can leave you alone at this moment,’ Deborah said.

  ‘There’ll be no need for that. But I appreciate the thought.’ Bill opened the seal and pulled out a chunky watch and a set of keys. ‘The Rolex I gave him for his eighteenth birthday.’ He paused for a moment trying to control his emotions. ‘I just want him back, that’s all. I want him to be home again.’

  Bill wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, then picked up the keys. ‘That’s for his room on campus and his beloved car, his Mercedes convertible.’ He looked at the fob‌—‌a miniature black plastic car‌—‌attached to his keys. ‘That’s strange. The Mercedes fob is gone. I’ve never seen this one before.’

  ‘Seems like an old-style Saab,’ Deborah said. ‘Do you mind if I take a closer look?’

  Bill shrugged and handed her the keys.

  Deborah ran her finger along the top of the miniature car and then along the side. ‘How very clever of John,’ she said, opening the small-scale hood. ‘You know what that is?’

  ‘Not a clue,’ said Sam.

  ‘It’s a USB flash drive. You can store vast amounts of information just by inserting this stick into the side of a computer.’

  55

  Deborah and Sam followed Bill upstairs to his study overlooking the water. Legal tomes and leather-bound books were stacked neatly on shelves from the floor to the ceiling. Beside the window was a large desk, a laptop switched on.

  Bill sat down in a burgundy leather chair. ‘Well, here goes,’ he said and slid the memory stick into the USB port at the side of his computer.

  ‘Password Protected’ flashed up immediately. There were seventeen asterisks. Bill slammed the palm of his hand off his desk. ‘Goddamit.’

  ‘Okay, it’s a setback, but let’s try and work it out. Tell me, Bill, what was John’s favorite team?’

  ‘Miami Dolphins. But that won’t make up seventeen characters, will it?’

  ‘Well, let’s put our brains together and see what we can come up with.’

  For the next couple of hours they tried numerous passwords. They used the names of famous people that Bill said John had admired‌—‌Martin Luther King, Bob Dylan (using his real name Robert Zimmerman) and Bruce Springsteen but also people he had hated. These included disgraced arch neo-con Paul Wolfowitz, Joseph McCarthy and Howard Kaloogian (founder of the right-wing party Move America Forward). Cities he’d lived in, cities he’d wanted to visit.

  But nothing worked.

  Eventually they gave up. And Bill made them something to eat.

  McNally called in to make sure that everything was okay, and Sam in turn rang Frank Callaghan, who relayed details about a carjacking in Little Havana, a baby girl found alive in a filthy cot in a run-down apartment in Overtown, her crack-addict mother lying dead on the floor, and a soldier who hailed from Fort Lauderdale who’d been killed by a roadside bomb in Kabul.

  Bad news would always be good news for a newspaper.

  Deborah sat quietly eating her chicken sandwich. ‘Do you mind if I look through John’s bedroom, to see if there’s anything there that could be used as a password?’

  Bill didn’t look too convinced but he led the way upstairs in to his son’s old room. On one wall, an American flag. And on the other, a black and white poster of Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman in All The President’s Men. Two of the four walls had bookshelves, piled high with hundreds of hardback and paperback books. Noticing some of the titles, it was obvious to Deborah where John Hudson’s sentiments lay.

  She couldn’t help but feel sad. The room was laid out exactly as if John was still at home, as if Bill and his wife wanted to preserve it as it had been‌—‌where their son had lived and breathed. They seemed unwilling and probably unable to desecrate the evidence of his existence.

  Bill went to get his laptop while Sam flicked through hundreds of CDs and DVDs stacked up beside the single bed. He shouted out band names in the hope that they made up seventeen characters. The Velvet Underground, Jerry Lee Lewis and Captain Beefheart.

  Deborah began trawling through the shelves of mostly classic novels. When Bill got back she began suggesting author names and book titles. ‘Edgar Allan Poe, Patricia Cornwell, Noam Chomsky, Daphne Du Maurier. What about Stupid White Men by Michael Moore or Washington Square by Henry James?’ She ploughed through every piece of fiction and non-fiction that John Hudson had been interested in.

  Time was dragging on, and they had not achieved the breakthrough, ignoring the darkness outside.

  ‘Echo and the Bunnymen.’ It was a good try from Sam, but there were eighteen characters.

  Deborah’s gaze was drawn to one well-thumbed book, spine broken, called Hack Attacks Encyclopedia: A Complete History of Hacks, Cracks, Phreaks, and Spies over Time.

  She began flipping through it at random until she got to a MIT bookmark on page 832.

  ‘Hang on,’ she said, scanning the page. ‘Wait a goddamn minute.’

  Two words leapt out at her. Microsloth Windows. It was a disparaging hackerism for Microsoft Windows. ‘Bill, try this,’ she said.

  Suddenly the screen came alive, dozens of documents downloading in seconds. ‘Holy shit, what have we here?’ Bill cried.

  ‘You’re a genius,’ Sam said,
as they craned over Bill’s shoulder to see what came up first.

  Dear Mum and Dad,

  I am writing this letter to you from a crummy motel on the edge of the Everglades, fearing for my life. I believe they’re closing in on me. And this is my only way of talking to you, knowing I may be dead when you read this.

  If something happens to me, I hope the contents stored in my memory stick may survive to bear witness to what I know. Folks, I believe I’ve stumbled onto a conspiracy. Please don’t be mad at me. It involves a cabal within the CIA, working against our country for their personal gain. I believe the man at the center of it is Charles Henke, Deputy Director of the CIA. I discovered these documents through hacking into his smartphone and downloading a Trojan virus in a bar in Washington DC, purely to see if there was anything on the twenty-eight missing pages of the Congressional Report into the 9/11 attacks. You know I felt strongly that we should have had that information. And the virus I had co-created cleaned out everything on the guy’s phone, which included the unexpurgated version of the 9/11 report which he had e-mailed as an attachment to the Saudis from his encrypted Hotmail address. Even I was shocked. He was, in effect, breaking the law as well as breaching CIA security protocol. Treasonable. But the smartphone, which was for his personal use, also contained all the e-mails sent by Charles Henke from that phone.

  They are self-explanatory.

  I wanted to pass what I had found to Deborah Jones, but I believe that Henke and another at the CIA were on to me very quickly. I don’t know how. But they were.

  Mum and Dad, I’ll love you forever.

  Do what you think is the right thing. I only wish I was there.

  Love, peace and respect

  John

  X

  Tears ran down Bill Hudson’s face. Positioning the cursor over the second folder, he clicked it open.

  The first file was the missing twenty-eight pages of the Congressional Report that they’d already seen. The second was the CIA Fallback protocol.