The Pandora Key (7 page)

“A buyer for Betelco?”

“For the old Lightway, actually, the manufacturing piece. It was an incredible stroke of unearned and undeserved luck, at least on the part of my husband. A company in Ohio was interested in buying it at a fair price.” The dog, back in her place on Susan’s lap, tilted her head as Susan scratched behind her ears. “It’s no surprise that the only part of the entire enterprise that had any value was the piece my husband’s father had built. But guess what happened then?”

“I don’t—”

“Roger decided that it wasn’t enough to get out from under all that debt. He decided that the small bit of money we expected to make on the side just wasn’t enough. Nothing was ever enough for him.” Trudy’s eyes had turned to slits as Susan began to rub harder behind her ears. “No, he had to make the big score. He had to be on the cover of
Fast Company
, and she convinced him that he could.”

“You’re speaking of Rachel?”

“The accountant. That bitch accountant. She told him everything he wanted to hear, that all he needed was a little more cash and that she knew where he could get it and that the deal with the people in Ohio wasn’t good enough. She talked him into calling off the deal, and once the buyer was out of the way, she opened the door and let the pigs come in, and once they were in, there was no way to get them out.”

“These are the Russian investors?”

“Investors. Ha!”

“What did they do?”

“What pigs do. They turned our business, our very lives, into their own personal toilet bowl.”

She was starting to flush, the heat showing from the scoop-necked shirt up. I hated to push her more, but I needed more facts and fewer metaphors. “Exactly how did they do that?”

“They…they brought in dirty money by the boat-load.” One of her hands went flying over her head. “They…how do you say it? They
pumped up
the income statement. They made up customers. They used Roger to convince everyone he had turned the business around, and when new investors came onboard, they took their money, too, and in the end, when the FBI showed up to arrest them all, they vanished. And so did my husband. He walked out the door and left me here in the
toilet bowl
to
eat
all the
shit
they left
behind
.”

The words came out through a clenched jaw, and her entire body shook with the venomous rage that would no longer stay down. That she felt it was understandable. That she felt it so deeply was unsettling. I almost wanted to reach over and snatch the poor animal from her unsteady hands. Trudy must have felt it, too. She jumped to the floor and scurried off.

Without the dog, Susan seemed to have no place to put her hands. She reached around and stroked the hair at the nape of her neck. “They threatened the children.” She said it quietly.

“The Russians?”

“After my husband left, they came. They wanted to know where he was.” The rage had dissipated. Now she seemed frightened. “They came into my house. They made us sit on this couch and watch them as they went through here and tore it apart from top to bottom. It was terrifying. We thought we were going to die.”

“Why did they tear up your house?”

“They were looking for him, some sign of him. Somehow, I convinced them I didn’t know where he was, or we would all be dead, and he would have the blood of his children on his hands along with everything else he’s done.”

I looked around the house. There were no signs of a violent search. “When did this happen?”

“When he left. Four years ago.”

“Does the FBI know?”

“I was told in no uncertain terms that no authorities should ever know. They obviously knew where we lived. What do you think?”

“Have you heard from these Russians since?”

“No.” She seemed to remember for the first time that she was without her tiny companion. “Trudy, dear, where are you, sweetie?”

Trudy must have heard in Susan’s voice that it was safe to come back. She came bounding into the room and launched herself into her mistress’s lap.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to open old wounds. I have just a few more questions.” She held Trudy in her arms and hugged her close as the dog lapped at her face. I hesitated, but she had found her detachment again. Her frozen smile had returned. “Why would Rachel bring these people in?”

“Ask her.”

Another good question for when I found her. The list was getting long. “Do you know the names of any of these Russians?”

“They don’t have names. They hide behind their companies. TXH Partners and Bonneville Ventures and names like that.” I had my notebook out and started jotting down the names. “Don’t bother,” she said. “They’re gone. Those were nothing but shells. Everything is gone.”

That seemed like the right place to end. I thanked her for her time. She walked me to the door with Trudy in her arms. I knew the second I was through it, she was back to her velour robe and whatever activities occupied her day. I decided to take one last shot.

“Susan, do you mind one more question?”

“No.”

“You asked me when I first got here if I had found your husband. Do you believe he’s alive?”

She didn’t hesitate. “With everything in me.”

“Why?”

“I feel it. If he were dead, I would know it. If he were dead, I don’t think it would still hurt this much.”

I got halfway down the walk and turned. She was still in the doorway. “If I find him, do you want to know?”

“No. Yes. Please.”

I went out to my car and made notes of everything new I had learned. Rachel had been carrying on an affair with Roger. I did the math. Four years ago, Rachel would have been married to Gary. I was just getting to know Roger, but from what I already knew of Rachel, I wasn’t surprised that she had been the other half of an illicit relationship. That didn’t even take into account the boundaries—ethical and regulatory—crossed by an outside auditor sleeping with her client.

Next item: Russians. I didn’t know much about Russian gangsters, but I knew what everyone else knew. They were among the shrewdest, most savage, most conscienceless people on earth. The only surprising thing about Susan’s story was that they had not killed her and her children. Ling had not mentioned any Russians, and yet he obviously knew about them. Any decent investigation of Betelco would have turned them up, or at least evidence that they had been there. The fact that he was holding that back had to mean something.

My phone began to ring. I checked the spy window and flipped it open. “Hi, Felix.”

“Blackthorne.” He never said hello or goodbye on the phone anymore. He was getting to be more and more like Dan every day.

“Are you speaking in code? How come I can never understand you.”

He laughed. “Those plates that you gave me? They were on a rental car, and the company that paid for it is Blackthorne.”

“I’ve never heard of it. What is it?”

“It’s a private military firm out of Falls Church, Virginia.”

“Private military firm?” I thought about what that particular combination of words might mean. “Mercenaries?”

“I don’t think so.” He paused, and I knew he was scanning his monitor. “It says here that private military firms are a legitimate and growing industry. They contract with the army to provide services the military needs but can’t do on its own and…blah, blah, blah…” He started to hum a familiar tune with no melody, what I liked to call the Felix Thinking Song. It went on for several seconds. I looked out my window at the other houses on Susan’s street. The season’s new green lawns were just coming in. They were all neatly manicured. By contrast, Susan’s looked a little sad.

“Here we go.” Felix was back. “Blackthorne was founded by a marine lieutenant colonel named Tony Blackmon and a CIA operative named Cyrus Thorne. That sounds cool.”

“What kinds of services are we talking about for the military? Hauling fuel and slinging hash? Because that’s not really all that cool.”

“Hold on…hold on.” He mumbled a little more of the Felix tune. “Okay, hauling fuel and meal preparation would be a passive PMF. Passive means providing training and support. Active means providing services up to and including combat operations. There aren’t many that are considered truly active.”

“Which is Blackthorne?”

“Active.” Another pause. “Whoa.
Way
active. It’s the fastest-growing one there is. These guys are all over the Middle East, in the Balkans, Africa, South America. Anywhere there’s a fight going on and money to be made, you can find Blackthorne.”

“What would a…a…what did you call them?”

“Private military firm. PMF.”

“What would one of those want with Rachel?” I thought about it. “Maybe I should call and ask. If there’s a private army looking for Rachel, chances are they’ll find her quicker than I will.”

“Way to leverage, Miss Shanahan.”

“Exactly. Do you have a contact for Blackthorne?”

“I’ve got their main number down in Falls Church, but I called them already, and there’s no way to get through the administrative assistants. It’s a wall, Miss Shanahan. I’ve busted through world-class firewalls that were easier.”

“Do you have a suggestion?”

“There’s a guy in town you might want to talk to. He’s a reporter for the
Globe
. His name is…let me see. I just had it here. He won some awards for his stories on the Catholic church scandal, and this guy named Whitey Bulger. Who is Whitey Bulger, anyway?”

“Notorious local criminal and fugitive. His brother was president of the state senate.”

“State senate?”

“It’s a long story. Who is this reporter? What’s his name?”

“Lyle Burquart.”

When he said the name, I didn’t make the connection, but when he spelled it, I knew I’d seen it before. After we hung up, I dug through the piles of printouts I’d stuffed into my backpack. When I found the swath devoted to the hijacking of Salanna 809, I pulled it out and checked the bylines. Lyle Burquart, reporting for the
Boston Globe.
Yet another twist in the road that had already made me seasick. What did it mean that the same guy who had reported on this private military organization also reported on the hijacking of Salanna 809? I had to stop and think about why the hijacking was relevant in the first place. The connection to the hijacking was the name
Stephen Hoffmeyer.
Ling had said that Hoffmeyer was an alias for Fratello. But Hoffmeyer was dead. That was no secret. I had read it on the Internet. So, why was Ling treating him as if he were very much alive?

Maybe Susan’s intuition was right. Maybe a woman is the first to know her husband has died, even if he is a sack of shit.

8

LYLE BURQUART WAS AT LEAST SIX-FOOT-
FOUR, WITH dark, wiry hair that sat on his head like derelict shrubbery. His stooped shoulders were a perfect complement to his sad, aching eyes. With a gait that was more like a series of connected lunges, he made his way across the WBRS-we-do-sports-better-than-anyone lobby to greet me.

“Who are you?” It wasn’t a warm greeting.

“Alex Shanahan. Thank you for seeing me. Can we—”

“What do you want?”

“I’m a local private investigator. I’m working on a case, and I saw in the paper you wrote—”

“What kind of case?”

“Missing person. It’s my partner. Can you—”

“Who is your partner?”

“Harvey Baltimore.” I stopped there, grateful to get through a whole sentence, even if it was a short one. When he said nothing, I pressed on. “I called the newspaper, and they said you had left and to try you over here. I was hoping I could get a few minutes to talk with you.”

“About what?”

“Salanna 809 and a company called Blackthorne. I understand you reported on both.”

He took a step back. It put him directly under one of the overhead fluorescent tubes. The unflattering light caught the bags under his eyes and made them look absolutely huge.

“I can’t talk to you,” he said.

The receptionist was not bothering to hide her interest. I reached out, as if to gather Lyle in, and made a move for a couple of chairs in the lobby, a good distance from prying ears. “Could we just move over here where we can be a little more comfortable?”

There were lots of things going on with him. His jaw was working, and I could hear his teeth grinding. With his elbows locked, he was bouncing the heels of his hands against his thighs. I watched his chest rise and fall at least ten times before he finally agreed to take five steps to his right.

I turned us so that our backs were to the receptionist. “Look, my partner is missing. He’s sick. He’s got multiple sclerosis, and I’m worried about him. The FBI came to the house and asked all kinds of questions about a man named Roger Fratello. Do you know that name?”

“No.”

“What about Stephen Hoffmeyer? Do you know that name?”

I could see in his eyes that he did. He knew it from the hijacking story. I could also see a spark of interest in his pale face. It wasn’t much, but I was hoping it could be the thread that unraveled his resistance. I started to pull on it. “Roger Fratello is an embezzler. He ran a company called Betelco. It sounds as if he got into trouble with a bunch of Russian investors and stole some money and disappeared. This was four years ago, right around the time of Salanna 809.”

“There was no one named Fratello on Salanna.” His voice was tense but controlled.

“The FBI says Fratello might have been going by the name of Stephen Hoffmeyer.”

“Why do they think that?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “They were the ones asking all the questions. Do you think that’s true? Do you think Fratello might have been on Salanna?”

“Not under his own name.”

“Could he have been Hoffmeyer, in which case he’d be dead, I assume?”

“No. Stephen Hoffmeyer was not an embezzler from Boston.”

“Are you sure?”

“I know everything there is to know about that incident. You’re wrong about that. So is the FBI, but…” He stared at me with the obsessive look of a problem solver who had left the problem only half solved. He was taking this latest piece of data, putting it with everything else he already knew, trying new combinations, and hoping the answer would emerge. But as quickly as the desire had gripped him, it let him go. Or he threw it off. “I’ve got a different gig now,” he said finally. “I can’t help you. I’m sor—”