The Bergamese Sect (31 page)

Chapter 18

The house was large, painted in powder blue and deep maroon, and had enormous shuttered windows above and below. It stood in a leafy lane of similar expensive houses, all determined to retain their historical charm, proudly colonial.

Walsh sat in a rental car hidden beneath a beech tree across the street. He’d been watching the house for hours, his tired eyes wet and itching as if a cold breeze was blowing into them.

At half past five, the door to the house opened and a man came out. He was dressed in dark blue shorts and a short-sleeved flowery shirt. A fishing hat was perched on his balding head, its badges glinting in the daylight. The dark-coloured socks and brown sandals were comical in their lack of taste. He looked every bit the tourist, the urbanite with cash, but with no idea how to blend in.

As the man jumped down the steps to the lawn, his overweight frame seemed to undulate. His chubby calves and wobbly lower arms were glaringly white in the evening sunshine. Although wax-like in pallor, his cheeks were rose coloured.

Daintry was taking a short break at his holiday home in Maine. Walsh had been watching the pattern of his movements for a few days. An early-morning walk into town to buy a newspaper, lunch alone in a bar, the afternoon sitting on the back porch. There was a weak point, a time when the man was isolated and defenceless. In the evening, Daintry always played nine holes followed by dinner at a nearby country club.

The pot-bellied security adviser hopped over the iridescent green lawn and jumped in his Nissan 4x4. He started it up, reversed into the street and headed off toward town.

Walsh waited for the car to disappear, then started his own engine and took off after him.

They drove slowly through York Harbor, Walsh keeping a respectable distance behind, and up the coastal road toward Cape Neddick. They passed by the stony shore of Long Beach, full of strollers. The whitewashed walls of the Nubble Lighthouse shimmered in the evening sunshine.

The road pulled back inland again, making way for shoreline properties. After several miles, Daintry’s car slowed and turned into his country club.

Once into the turn, Walsh accelerated, sped up the entrance drive to close the gap between them. The timing was perfect. Just as Daintry had taken two steps away from his car, Walsh crunched to a halt behind the Nissan, showering pebbles across the parking lot.

Walsh threw open the door and jumped out.

Daintry’s face dropped. ‘Shit!’ he squawked. He took a step backward, made a movement toward his back pocket.

‘
Don’t reach for it,’ Walsh said, his weapon already trained on Daintry’s chest. ‘That would be a big mistake.’

Daintry froze, drew his hand slowly back to his side. ‘Not as big as the one you’ve just made,’ he said.

Walsh surveyed the parking lot. It was small, contained only a handful of vehicles. A few trees bordered the curbs. A short walk away lay the club house, apparently quiet. All around them manicured grass swept toward the horizon, dotted with sand traps and small copses. A few people gathered by a line of golfing carts, others were visible teeing up beyond the club house. There was no one in the immediate vicinity.

Walsh stepped forward, twirled his finger to indicate Daintry should turn around. He plucked the weapon from a back pocket and dropped it into his jacket. One-handed, he swept over Daintry’s body, searching for concealed weapons, wires, panic buttons. The security advisor was clean.

Walsh stepped back, keeping his gun partially covered at waste level, aiming it at Daintry’s outsized torso. Daintry turned back slowly. There was little emotion on his face. Perhaps just a hint of surprise.

‘
What are you doing here?’ Daintry asked.

‘
Well, it’s not like I’m here for the view.’

‘
Sewell said you might attempt contact. It would have been easier if he’d killed you when he had the chance.’

‘
Easier for who?’

Daintry ignored the question. ‘How did you find me?’

‘
It wasn’t difficult. I’ve known about your little hideaway for some time.’

Daintry attempted an accusing smile, but it looked more like a painful grimace. ‘I’m surprised we didn’t suspect you sooner.’

Walsh shook his head. ‘I’m not the enemy here, Ted. It’s Sewell,’ he said.

Daintry’s top lip pulled up disdainfully. ‘Sewell’s the bad guy, is he?’ he said rhetorically.

‘
Unbelievable, isn’t it?’

Daintry nodded. ‘That’s right, Larry. It’s unbelievable. You’re wasting your breath. I’m not going to listen to it. Put a slug in me if you like, but I’m not playing ball. There’s too much at stake here.’

Now Walsh nodded. ‘Exactly; there’s too much at stake. That’s why I’m resorting to drastic action. I’m not going to shoot you, unless I have to, but you
will
do as I say.’ Walsh sneered to emphasise the words.

‘
You can’t make me betray my conscience.’

Walsh shrugged his shoulders. ‘In the car!’

Daintry remained unperturbed, stepped toward the passenger door.

‘
No, you drive,’ Walsh said, tossing the keys over the hood.

Walsh directed him onto the shore road, back toward Cape Neddick. The road was quiet. Only a beaten up pickup passed them as they cruised along. After a few miles, the road bent round a small coastal inlet shrouded by trees. Walsh motioned for Daintry to pull over on a shoulder of loose stones.

They stepped out, crossed the road. Ignoring the ‘private beach’ sign, they hopped over the grass and onto the small crescent of sand and pebbles.

The area was clearly visible from the road, but at each end of the beach, the granite bedrock thrust out of the ocean, the dark grey boulders sweeping out of view, drenched with Atlantic spray.

Walsh marched his captive across the stony sand and up onto the rocks. As they rounded the shoreline, Walsh took a glance over his shoulder. To the south, the promontory of the Nubble Lighthouse jutted out from the dark landscape, the flashing red beacon already lit for the approaching twilight. The twinkle reflected on an ocean that was becoming a deep grey in the dimming light.

When they reached a point from where he could no longer see the road, out of earshot of the trees, Walsh stopped. Daintry took a few more steps. Then, noticing the lack of following footsteps, he turned back to Walsh.

‘
Ted,’ Walsh said, ‘I want you to think very carefully about what’s happened.’

‘
We’ve thought of nothing else.’

‘
I mean, you should think seriously about what possible reason I could have for jeopardising the search for Sebastian?’

‘
I’m well aware of your motives, Larry. You’re a traitor. How long have you been part of this?’

Walsh shook his head.

‘
How many lives are we talking about here?’ Daintry asked. ‘A thousand? A hundred thousand? Lives you and your conspirators have messed with. Driven people to insanity. Given them a cause to despise the people who work their butts off ensuring their freedom. You make me sick.’

‘
Shut up,’ Walsh barked, but Daintry ignored him.

‘
Why, Larry? Do you just get a kick out of fucking with people’s minds? It’s hardly constitutional. Or are you gonna tell me they’re really out there, loping around, jumping out from behind trees with their dead eyes, slit noses?’ Daintry jolted in a dismissive shrug, looked Walsh up and down hatefully.

‘
You’ve got it all wrong, Ted,’ Walsh said.

‘
Really?’

‘
Yes. Sewell is the one responsible.’

‘
The evidence is otherwise.’ There was real vitriol in Daintry’s voice.

‘
What evidence?’

‘
Your men killed CIA operatives on the suspect’s trail. They aided their escape in Poland.’

‘
Bullshit! Have you seen that evidence?’

‘
Sewell showed us,’ Daintry nodded.

‘
Sewell?’

‘
Yes, Larry. Sewell. Oberon. The Chairman of Daedalus. Remember him? You’re trying to convince me he’s to blame? You don’t get into that position easily, Larry.’

‘
Shut up and listen.’ Walsh pushed the gun in his pocket, the end of the barrel forming a menacing bulge before Daintry’s eyes. ‘After our meeting last week Sewell warned me there was a saboteur among us. He wouldn’t tell me how he knew. He convinced me to give him access to my operations loop. The next day I find my agents have been compromised. The only person with enough information to do that was Sewell. But, like you, I was astounded by that possibility. So, I set up a sting on the West Coast. And sure enough, someone acted on information that only Sewell had been given. It demonstrated his guilt. Twelve hours later the Masheder Building is stormed and I’m out in the cold. He murdered three of my men, Ted.’

‘
Please!’ Daintry said, rolling his eyes. ‘You’ll need more than that to convict him.’

‘
Oh, but there is more. Much more.’

‘
Like what?’

‘
Before Sewell descended on me, I managed to get hold of everything on him from the intelligence network computers. It was mostly irrelevant. A lot of stuff from his CIA days. But then I came across his name in a few FBI case files. It made interesting reading.’

‘
Was Sewell in the FBI?’

‘
No, he’s never worked for the Bureau.’

‘
So why did they have files on him?’

‘
One of the files concerned a man called Jordan. Peter Jordan. He’s a multi-millionaire, made his money from property out West. A shining example of successful free enterprise. But he hasn’t always been an upstanding citizen. In fact, he’s well known to the Bureau. Used to be a radical activist. Had his hand in just about everything. Anti-Nam campaigns, pro-Marxist groups. He may even have been involved with white-supremacy thugs. If it’s anti-establishment, he had a go at some point or other. But it seems he was mostly motivated by religious activism. The Bureau suspected he was behind the bombing of several abortion clinics in the early ‘70s. His name was also linked to the murder of several outspoken Catholics. People who wanted modernisation in the Church, liberalism. But they could never prove anything. Soon, Jordan’s name disappeared from their files, didn’t surface again for nearly twenty years. He’d become reclusive, a shadow, more or less vanished. Turns out he was buying up half of Oregon! Building himself an empire.’

‘
What’s this got to do with Sewell?’

‘
I’m getting to that. Eventually, the Bureau lost interest in Jordan. They thought he was a reformed character; that his mountain of greenbacks had taught him tolerance. They forgave him his indiscretions, though they didn’t forget. They kept an eye on him, though it was difficult to keep track of a man so secretive. Anyway, in ’93, the Bureau were looking into some apparent property fraud in Montana. It turned out to be a perfectly innocent oversight. But during the course of the investigation, they took a look at Jordan’s finances. They were surprised to find that Bob Sewell had received a huge cash donation from Peter Jordan. Five million dollars. Obviously, they wanted to know why an ex-activist had handed a CIA agent a free meal ticket.’

Daintry’s face remained emotionless, though his silence was telling.

‘
Seems the Bureau started looking closely at Sewell,’ Walsh continued. ‘They didn’t tell the Agency, of course. Well, you wouldn’t expect them to, would you? Anyway, the funds were certainly being spent out of Sewell’s personal bank account, but he only ever made cash withdrawals. They had no idea what Sewell was doing – what his association with Jordan was. They wanted to push further into their relationship. But then the file was suddenly closed, with no further action, by order of the DCI!’

‘
Were any crimes committed?’

Walsh laughed. ‘You don’t need to commit a crime to be of interest to the FBI.’

‘
Were there?’

‘
No.’

‘
Then what’s your point? The DCI has the authority to close down an investigation if there’s no evidence of a crime. The Bureau were obviously wasting tax dollars. Sewell could have a perfectly legal business arrangement with this Jordan.’

‘
Just hold on. There’s more. Sewell’s name also came up in another Bureau case. A few years back the Feds were looking into some reported irregularities of an academic society based in New York. Something to do with suspicious import procedures. At the time, Sewell was a CIA agent working in Somalia under deep cover. Suddenly, for no reason I can see, Sewell comes out of the desert and goes to work on this case.’

‘
He was re-assigned. What’s so strange about that?’

‘
Three things. Firstly, he wasn’t reassigned; he assigned himself to the case. Secondly, what have the Agency got to do with import duties? They have no domestic jurisdiction. That’s the Bureau’s battleground. And finally, as soon as Sewell gets involved, the case is shut down again, the investigation simply cut off. Again, the order appeared to come from the DCI.’

‘
Perhaps he didn’t find anything.’

‘
Bullshit! There wasn’t any investigation. He must have pulled some pretty thick ropes to stop questions being asked. Whatever was going on in that society, Sewell made sure no one found out about it.’

‘
Perhaps the Agency had some involvement in the organisation.’

‘
What do you mean?’

‘
C’mon, Larry, you know as well as I do the CIA funds all sorts of organisations to further its aims. Radical student activist groups, dissident academic societies, militant publications. They have their hands in the whole lot. If you want to control a population, you’ve got to be one of the hands that feeds its paranoia.’