Operation Mockingbird (9 page)

CHAPTER TEN

BOB SANDBERG’S JOURNAL was just like the wide-ruled composition pads that he had used to take exams in college. Black and white cardboard cover with a white space in the middle to put the course title. There, Bob had neatly printed in black block letters his name and telephone number and, underneath that, the year 2013, a dash and then the number 2.

Matt opened the book hesitantly at first. The pages, filled with Bob’s thoughts and insights, were as intimidating now as the blank pages Matt had faced for each essay exam in college. He started to flip through the pages, slowly at first and then more quickly.

“Jesus,” he said under this breath.
There was a ton of stuff here.

The journal included notes taken during meetings and telephone conversations, lists of things to do and Bob’s observations about life in general. Matt laughed out loud at Bob’s diatribes against big government, observations about various politicians and random musings about his daily life. Bob had been an extremely talented writer, full of energy, with more than his fair share of moments of brilliance and, always, a large dose of sarcasm. The journal showed how
nimbly he moved between the different worlds he occupied -- family man to a loving wife and two young boys and antagonist to some of the most powerful men in Washington.

Bob had been working on several different story lines. There were notes on the worsening situation in the Middle East, the positions of powerful politicians on certain issues and the primary sources of funding for various campaigns. There were several references to specific private military corporations and their annual revenues.

The notes regarding Afghanistan included interviews with representatives of the United Nations, Afghan nationals and former members of the Taliban. There were paragraphs about the U.S. presence in the Middle East and suggestions for extricating the U.S. military forces from the beleaguered region. The observations were from different points of view, coming from academic, diplomatic and journalistic pundits. The notes about politicians included some intriguing speculation about the relationships among various politicos and certain high-powered lobbyists. There was even some speculation of a more salacious nature about the sex lives of certain officeholders.

Matt didn’t know which was the more insidious. The powerful elected officials who used their power to exploit the young men and women desperate to make it ahead in Washington or the corporate lobbyists who filled the politicians’ campaign coffers in exchange for earmarks and political favors. It was hard to say. But it was ultimately the lobbyists to whom most politicians seemed to owe their allegiances, not their constituents, their families or even
their lovers. These relationships were so corrupt it was conceivable that Bob had stumbled across something that could have gotten him killed, but it would take a flow chart to map that out.

There were several comments in the journal regarding private military companies, or PMCs -- commercial outfits to which the government outsourced things like communications, logistics and security. Most people knew about the use of PMCs for logistics like housing and feeding American soldiers in some of the most remote and dangerous regions on the planet. But most of the public didn’t know that PMCs represented the newest addition to the modern battlefield and that their role in contemporary warfare was becoming increasingly significant.

“A study from the Office of the Director of National Intelligence,” Bob wrote, “notes that in 2008, private contractors made up 29 percent of the United States Intelligence Community, and cost the equivalent of 49 percent of their personnel budgets.”

“
Unbelievable,”
Matt thought. That meant the amount of money involved was staggering.

From Bob’s notes, Matt was able to glean that over the years, the U.S. government had used PMCs in regional and ethnic conflicts in places like Colombia, Haiti and Bosnia. PMCs worked with the State Department and foreign governments to train soldiers and reorganize militaries. They created armed bodyguards first and then whole teams of retired special ops men who worked all over the world.

Mercenaries
, Matt thought.

After September 11
^th
, a new Pentagon policy had developed emphasizing high-technology combat systems, sophisticated weaponry, small, nimble ground forces and, perhaps most important, greater reliance on private contractors. It was the brainchild of former U.S. Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld and was known as the Rumsfeld Doctrine.

The Middle East was considered the wild west of U.S. contracting as a result of the unbridled flow of U.S. taxpayer dollars into the area with little to no oversight. There, the use of contractors was so murky the U.S. government itself couldn’t figure out how much each of the different government agencies was paying subsidiaries and affiliates of the different PMC conglomerates, let alone how many millions of dollars were lost in each step of the process. The Pentagon had a long history of failing to oversee the businesses they hired on the government dime. Even the seemingly simple question of how much total federal spending goes to foreign subcontractors annually had no clear answer because of the complex chain of contractors involved in each project.

There were several references in the journal to a company called Information Management Services. Other than an address in Florida, there didn’t seem to be much information about it. Matt noted that Bob had written over the name several times and the initials IMS were on several places in the journal.

In the margin of one page Matt noticed a name written in Bob’s scrawl.
Alex Doren.

That name again.

He flipped through the journal again quickly. He noticed the initials “AD” appeared in several places throughout the pages. Matt studied the entries where AD’s initials appeared. There didn’t seem to be any particular common theme, but “AD” figured prominently in Bob’s thoughts. Alex Doren had evidently been in touch with Bob even before he had sent Matt several emails requesting an interview since his return. Matt had no idea whether there was any connection between Alex Doren and Bob’s death. But coincidence or not, Alex Doren was finally going to get that interview.

By the time Matt pulled up to his house, it was almost midnight and he was exhausted. His meeting with Marie had drained him, mentally and emotionally. His head still throbbed from the unfortunate encounter at Stephen’s apartment. On top of all this, he continued to be plagued with worry about Mo and Stephen. The assignment he had accepted from Marie was exactly the type of thing he would typically talk through with both men, but they were currently missing in action.

As Matt walked up the driveway toward his darkened house, he heard a voice behind him.

“Connelly. Matt Connelly.”

He turned back to see a heavyset man standing in the middle of the street. The light coming from the streetlamp behind him prevented Matt from identifying the guy. Matt stepped forward and squinted in the dark as the man stepped out of the shadows.

“Commissioner,” Matt finally said, acknowledging the man walking slowly toward him.

As the commissioner approached, Matt noticed an unfamiliar black Mercedes parked across the street and another man standing next to the driver’s side door. The man’s arms were crossed in front of his chest.

“I heard you were back in town, Matt,” Commissioner Suarez said casually. He was dressed in typical Miami business casual attire. Tan linen slacks and a white guayabera shirt. His black hair was slicked back and curled loosely around his neck. A gold watch and a diamond pinky ring glinted in the dim light.

“You heard right.”

“Welcome back,” the politician said as he took a step forward. He stepped into the driveway but stopped some distance away from Matt.

“Thank you, Commissioner.”

“I also heard you’re still in the news business.”

“Of course,” Matt shot back. “I love it. You know, educating the public. Championing the underdog.” Matt paused. “Exposing corrupt politicians.”

Matt could barely make out the other man’s features in the shadows but could swear he saw the right corner of the commissioner’s mouth begin to twitch.

Suarez was running for re-election in his district despite the corruption charges still pending against him. The challenger was a competent and, by all accounts, honest local attorney. But he was woefully under funded, a newcomer to the high-stakes game of South Florida politics and, perhaps worst of all, naïve enough to think that he could win without making promises to the large corporations in South Florida willing to pay big bucks in
cash and in-kind donations to those elected officials that, once elected, were willing to invite the corporate executives to the party.

Commissioner Suarez, on the other hand, had amassed quite a war chest from his loyal constituents and the executives of the local companies that would no doubt benefit from his being in office. Matt knew Suarez viewed his job as commissioner as nothing more than a high-stakes poker game where, as dealer, he was able to facilitate the passing of money from one player to another. He was willing to make sure the corporations that supported him had a seat at the high-rollers’ table. He had a proven track record of doing so. The sitting commissioner was projected to win by a landslide.

“Listen, Matt,” Suarez finally said. “I came here tonight to give you a little friendly advice, to extend to you a little professional courtesy between us public servants.”

The commissioner raised himself up an inch and took a step toward Matt, although still maintaining a healthy distance. The commissioner’s driver or bodyguard had also moved closer to the two men.

“Stay out of my way, Matt.” Suarez continued. “Do not mess with me, my family or my business.” He leaned forward. “It didn’t work so well for you the last time. It will be even worse this time.”

“Ah, it wasn’t so bad, Commissioner,” Matt said. “You needn’t worry about me. I had a wonderful time in Afghanistan -- practically a vacation.” Matt stepped closer to the commissioner. “As a matter of fact, I hear you’re facing the prospect of your own extended vacation.”

The commissioner stiffened but didn’t respond.

“How is that investigation going, by the way? It must be a bit of a distraction from your campaign.”

“
Mierda,”
the commissioner spat.

He took two steps forward before he stopped himself. From this distance, the twitching in the right corner of the commissioner’s mouth was unmistakable. The man standing by the Mercedes also started to move and was walking quickly toward them. Without turning his back to Matt, Suarez raised his hand and stopped the man in his tracks.

“Consider yourself warned, Matt,” Commissioner Suarez said, his face now within a few feet of Matt’s and his finger now pointed at him. “You don’t want to fuck with me.”

Before Matt could respond, Commissioner Suarez turned on his heel and slithered back into the shadows.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

FIRST THING THE NEXT MORNING, Matt started to go through his emails searching for the one he had opened from Alex Doren a few days before. Having deleted it, he was forced to go dumpster diving in the cyber trashcan containing advertisements, spam and deleted emails. Eventually he found the email.

“Sorry for the delay. I’m ready to talk,” Matt typed before asking if he was still interested in an interview.

He knew Doren would be and Doren didn’t disappoint, responding almost immediately and inviting Matt to meet for lunch that afternoon in Coconut Grove.

The restaurant was only a couple of blocks away from his house and parking could be challenging, so Matt left the Jeep and walked down to the center of the small community. What used to be a village populated by longhaired artists high on life and “Mary Jane” was now a favorite destination for the teenagers of Miami’s elite high on their parent’s money and prescription drugs. Streets once lined with head shops, art galleries and health-food restaurants were now lined with fashionable shops filled
with overpriced items and trendy restaurants serving mediocre food.

The only remnants of the old Grove were the occasional offbeat festivals, including the totally irreverent King Mango Strut Parade, which poked fun at local and national politics. This parade, which Matt tried not to miss, was now conducted with significantly less enthusiasm than in prior years and even less tolerance from the local politicians who were frequently the butt of the fun. Despite the diminished public support, a small group of local eccentrics and ex-hippies continued to support the parade -- but who knew for how much longer.

As agreed, Matt waited by the tall clock in the center of CocoWalk, the open-air pedestrian mall in Coconut Grove. He scanned the tourists for someone resembling an extremely persistent journalist. Unfortunately, in his haste to schedule a meeting, he had forgotten to get Doren’s description. And he had no idea whether Alex Doren knew what he looked like.

Doing a slow sweep, Matt sensed a presence behind him. He turned around and almost drowned in a deep pool of hazel green sprinkled with flecks of gold. The surprise prompted a quick step back. In black shoes, well-fitting blue jeans and a pressed, white button-down shirt, the vision stood practically as tall as Matt. The young woman’s shirt was unbuttoned enough to reveal the slope of her breasts above a white tank top underneath. Black sunglasses were slipped into the low neckline of the tank top. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a long ponytail.

“Hi,” Matt said delivering his most winning smile.

“Hello,” the stranger replied politely.

She made no move to leave, and Matt began to feel optimistic. “What brings you here?”

“I’m just waiting for someone. I thought you might be him.”

“I could be,” Matt replied. “Depends on who you’re waiting for.”

Matt continued when she only responded with a small smile. “Someone with boyish good looks and a self-deprecating sense of humor? Someone capable of maintaining an intelligent conversation.” Matt silently prayed Alex Doren would stand him up.