Capitol Reflections (43 page)
“We can try to look at the files. Isn’t that what your mysterious e-mail advised?”
“Yep. But where are the offices, and how do we get in and take a gander at the computers? Do we just say ‘pretty please’?”
Peter touched Mark’s upper sleeve lightly. “Look,” he said. “The answer is right here. All loaded and ready to go.”
Mark had no idea to what his companion was alluding, but at this point, he didn’t care. He just wanted to get out of Panama with all his body parts intact.
To Carlos Adenidos, two of the federal detectives he’d seen at the receiving door had appeared legitimate. The third, however, had looked nervous, fidgety. When the federales began their inspection of the warehouse, he picked up the telephone mounted on the corrugated wall and dialed a number.
“Op One,” said a businesslike voice at the other end of the line.
Carlos proceeded to describe his brief encounter with the suspicious men.
“You did well to call me,” said One in fluent Spanish. “But don’t—I repeat, don’t—do anything until I arrive. I’m about thirty to forty-five minutes away. I’ll handle matters when I arrive. Understand?”
“Sí.”
59
Rick Mecklenberg sat with Jan in the congressman’s office. Peter figured that would be the safest place to be before flying south. No one was likely to conduct a hit in the hallowed, marble-floored halls of the Rayburn Office Building.
Jan and Rick sat in the corner of his office, where Jamie’s Apple II had been stored for safekeeping. With Peter out of the country, Jan was the next most likely person capable of accessing the old operating system. As director of BioNet, she was computer savvy, though she didn’t have Tippett’s ultra-high-tech gadgets. Still, she could maneuver through systems that would make the average PC user’s head spin.
“Any luck?” asked Rick after Jan had typed in several commands on Jamie’s yellowing keyboard.
“None at all,” she replied. “His password could have been anything. If this kid was a prodigy, he probably had enough sense to create a random alphanumeric password.”
“Any alternatives?”
“Yes, though so far I’m coming up empty. The only thing to do at this point is to bypass the password protection altogether. I’m using a simple interface to allow my laptop to talk with the Apple.”
“Wouldn’t you need special software to do that?”
“The interface box is already loaded with software to allow binary systems to speak to each other. One thing hasn’t changed since the computer revolution began: computers run on chips that convert all information into a series of zeroes and ones. The interface would normally be able to access any PC—even a 286 or a 486 with no Pentium—but this damned Apple is just too freakin’ old. It’s not even recognizing the connection.”
Mickey Spangler was old. Too old, Spangler thought, to be carrying the burdens of a lifetime. He’d been a petty crook all his life, driving shipments from the Jersey docks or taking position as wheel-man for the occasional getaway vehicle, but he always thought he’d kept his nose relatively clean. He never went near the rough stuff, or at least never intended to. The on-campus accident at Princeton had changed his life forever, though. All he’d known was that he was supposed to wait for a phone call on the corner or Nassau and Washington Streets. Make a right at the cabstand and then drive down Washington. He’d figured he was the getaway ride. One minute he’d been driving along, thinking of his wife Ethel and how they had two great sons, and the next thing he knew, his truck had killed a college kid, mangling the kid’s bicycle in the process.
He could have almost convinced himself it was an accident if not for the guy in the rugby shirt. Immediately after the accident, Rugby Shirt had taken him aside before the police arrived and scared the hell out of him. Told him about how curious the cops might become about the whereabouts of a certain truckload of color televisions. In retrospect, Mickey felt he’d acted like a fool. He should have made his statement, should have told the truth to the police, but Rugby Shirt knew so much—too much. Once Mickey told the police the prearranged cover story, they seemed satisfied. Everything was fine that night until Rugby Shirt called him from a pay phone, making sure he was sticking to his story. If he didn’t follow instructions, the cops would hear a different version of his story and would start connecting some very unpleasant dots that trailed back into his past.
Mickey had shut up, just like he was supposed to. It didn’t help much in the end. “Three strikes and you’re out” was enough to nail him. A hijacking gone bad, possession of stolen property, being an accessory to armed robbery—and here he was now, dying in a prison hospital while contemplating the true meaning of a life sentence.
The last bust was the most ironic. He’d been sitting by the curb with the engine running, waiting his turn for a fifteen-dollar blowjob by the most talented pair of nineteen-year-old lips he’d ever met. Who knew that someone was going to rob the 7-Eleven across the street and that the getaway was going to get spooked, running just before the cops got there? The would-be desperados spotted Mickey’s car idling at the curbside and decided to carjack their own getaway car. Mickey’s rented paramour did a quick exit stage-right as the police arrived from all directions. All the cops saw was the two armed robbers trying to enter Mickey’s car. By the time they had their guns pointed at him, he had his pants back on and looked like any other getaway driver.
Wouldn’t you just know it—the two kids were juvies who would say anything the DA wanted to avoid being tried as adults. With two strikes against him, Mickey was easy pickings for accessory to armed robbery. And just to make sure the cell door stayed shut, the authorities tagged Mickey for corrupting two minors he’d never met.
Twenty-nine years later, Mickey was dying of lung cancer in a prison hospital ward. Why couldn’t he die at home with a little dignity?
Home. Ethel had long since remarried, but his son Tad and his wife would gladly take him in … wouldn’t they? They hadn’t exactly been regular visitors. Mickey was no threat to anyone now, so why couldn’t he go home and turn up his morphine drip in the comfort of a regular bed with a family member by his side? He’d seen only pictures of his two granddaughters over the years.
This definitely wasn’t the glamorous life of crime he’d signed up for.
60
Peter and Mark stood before the glazed door of the Transpac business office. Pedro stood outside to deter anyone who wanted to gain admission. Peter lifted the flap on his sleeve and produced three rings, placing them on the middle fingers of his left hand.
“What the hell are you doing?” asked Mark, not really wanting to know the answer.
“Each ring has a minisyringe attached to it. I just press the ring against flesh and voilà—the recipient of a little drug cocktail will be out for nearly an hour.”
“Is there anything you may have forgotten?” Mark asked wryly.
“I once forgot my ex-wife’s day off,” Peter said with a grin. “That’s how I got caught with the maid. Since then, I’ve learned to think ahead.”
Mark shook his head at Tippett’s cavalier answer. “Do we knock or just walk in unannounced?”
“Let’s surprise the buggers,” Peter said. “When we go in, let’s throw them off -balance. Open your arms like you know them and are ready to issue a warm embrace. That will give me time to size things up.”
“Go ahead,” Mark said with resignation.
Did Woodward or Bernstein ever do anything like this?
“We’ve come this far.”
Did Woodward or Bernstein ever do anything like this?
“We’ve come this far.”
Peter opened the door. Two men, each wearing a summer shirt and khaki pants, sat at desks in a small office cooled by a very old and very loud window AC.
“Compadre!” exclaimed Peter, smiling broadly, as he approached the man sitting to his left.
Mark opened his arms and stepped to the right. “Hola, señor,” he said, sounding like a high school Spanish student.
Both workers seemed baffled, glancing at each other and then back at their uninvited visitors.
Peter walked forward and extended his right hand in greeting to the puzzled clerk seated at the desk. The man started to hold out his right hand tentatively, and as he did, Peter advanced quickly and pressed the index finger of his left hand against the clerk’s neck. Within seconds, the man slumped over the wooden desk, motionless.
The other man sprang to his feet as Mark drew near and encircled him with his arms.
“Hold him!” called Peter.
Mark squeezed as the confused but angry man struggled to free himself from Stern’s bear hug. “Hurry up!” urged Mark. “I can’t hold him for long!”
Peter crossed the small office rapidly and pressed a different ring against the man’s forearm. The man started to speak, but as with his office mate, he lost consciousness quickly. Mark eased his limp body to the floor.
“That wasn’t so bad, now was it?” asked Peter.
“As far as offenses punishable by execution go, no—it was a piece of cake.”
“To the computers,” Peter said, sounding like Batman ordering Robin to the Batcave. From Mark’s perspective, Peter was having far too much fun with this.
“There’s no password,” proclaimed Peter, sitting at one of the desks in the small office while Mark stood behind him. They had dragged the unconscious Transpac employees to the side, where they would be unseen should anyone open the glazed door.
“That’s the first easy thing about this operation,” said Mark.
Peter began examining Transpac files.
“Tell me what you’re seeing,” said Mark, feeling a bit useless.
“I’m in the financial files. So far, I’m seeing straightforward payments made by Pequod’s, but not to Transpacific. According to these records, Pequod’s is buying its beans from plantations in Colombia and Brazil. That contradicts what we just saw. Out there,” Peter jerked his head, motioning to the warehouse, “Transpacific beans are being transferred to sacks reading ‘Pequod’s’ Also … ” Peter’s voice trailed off suddenly.
“Also what?” asked Mark, impatiently.
“There are large sums of money being paid from Randall to Lanai, Inc., whatever the hell that is.”
“Has to be a dummy corporation for Broome, and I’m talking Henry, not Anne. How large are the payments?”
“Substantial. Some are larger than the payments for the beans themselves. By extrapolation from these numbers, I’d say the senator is raking in tens of millions of dollars, and I’m just scanning these files quickly, not going through them in-depth.”
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