Whitewash

  Jason’s gut said no. He decided he needed to check something that had been nagging him ever since he and Senator Allen left EchoEnergy and Tallahassee after their trip last week.

  He found a menu for a Thai place that would deliver, so he could order something to eat. He’d be here a while. All he needed was William Sidel’s social security number. He already had authorization codes and passwords—one of the perks of an important senator’s chief of staff.

  After a few hours he would have a profile similar to what he had created on Arthur Galloway. Maybe following the money would tell him what the hell William Sidel was up to. And while he was at it maybe he’d check one other profile. Just because it was eating at him and maybe because he needed to find out why it was so easy to murder a member of a senator’s staff and keep the news media from pouncing on it.

  71

  Pensacola Beach, Florida

  Sabrina hated to see Miss Sadie leave. For the past year she had been Sabrina’s only true friend, though she certainly didn’t want to keep the old woman from her home. It was probably safer for her back in Tallahassee. By now, anyone looking for Sabrina would have discovered her gone. Yet after only half a day with Eric, Sabrina almost wanted to go back with Miss Sadie. There was something about Eric’s new life she didn’t trust. She was the one on the run yet Eric was the one who seemed all too prepared and familiar with life on the run.

  The instructions he gave the old woman sounded more like a covert operation. It reminded Sabrina of some of the stuff they’d play when they were kids and Eric liked to pretend he was Steve Austin, the Bionic Man.

  In a matter-of-fact tone, he had told Miss Sadie what to look for when she got back.

  “It may seem like something perfectly ordinary, but doesn’t look right,” he told the old woman. “Maybe a cement truck at the end of the block, but no road or sidewalk construction. Maybe a cable-TV guy going door to door.”

  Miss Sadie only nodded, but the information unnerved Sabrina. She wanted to believe Miss Sadie would be safe. She hated herself for having gotten her friend into this mess.

  Eric filled the Studebaker’s gas tank and stocked a cooler of fresh goodies. He even offered an escort of one of his friends. Instead of the escort, Miss Sadie accepted a cell phone and number.

  “You need anything, you call,” Eric instructed her. “Anything at all.”

  After several promises and a somber goodbye, Miss Sadie and Lizzie Borden headed out. Shortly afterward, Eric took the plastic bag with the EchoEnergy glob of waste, saying he knew someone who could help identify the contents. He made Sabrina promise she wouldn’t leave his apartment or even answer the door and then he left. And that’s when she felt it, the hollow, empty feeling of being alone.

  She paced his small apartment out of restlessness more than curiosity. Yet she couldn’t help noticing that there was very little here that personalized the place. No photos, no mail, no favorite take-out menus, which she remembered Eric had been famous for when he lived in Chicago. Their mother had kidded him about having more restaurants on his phone’s speed dial than women’s phone numbers. Eric’s quick comeback had always been that the two were his only vices—take-out food and women—noting that he never smoked or did drugs, drank very little alcohol and rarely swore.

  Sabrina glanced in a few drawers. Come to think of it, there were no signs of women visitors, either, not even the overnight variety, though Sabrina had always suspected her good-looking, charming brother was more talk than action.

  Sabrina had told herself that two years was enough time for a person to change. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea. She missed her brother, faults and quirks aside. She peeked inside his closet, hoping for a glimpse of familiarity. Instead, she found Ralph Lauren shirts and khakis and Sperry deck shoes. Everything had a designer label. Since when did Eric care?

  Back in the corner was a set of Ping golf clubs and a Head tennis racquet. Outside the apartment door on the second-floor deck Sabrina had noticed a smaller version of what she thought to be a surfboard. Athletics had always come easy to Eric, so this stuff fit, though her very social brother had usually chosen team sports like basketball at the Y and league baseball. Golf was social, she told herself just as she noticed an engraved silver-plated nameplate on the golf bag that read E. Gallo. There was more than enough room on the nameplate. Why would he abbreviate his last name? Or was that what Eric was calling himself these days? And if so, why?

  72

  Eric left the plastic bag down the street at the Santa Rosa Water Treatment Plant with a lab tech who only went by the name Bosco. A few weeks ago she had agreed to do some independent work for Eric in exchange for a chance to do a weekly standup-comedy gig at Howard’s place next door, Bobbye’s Oyster Bar.

  The place was small—a roll-up garage-type door that revealed the bar and enough room on the other side for one bartender, usually Eric, sometimes Howard, to serve from the shelves behind and below. A half-dozen bistro tables and chairs spread out on the boardwalk in front were kept full from open to close. Small and intimate, but on Friday and Saturday nights, it could be standing room only.

  At the time, Eric knew Howard would be okay with it. He wasn’t into making his place a trendy hangout, but he liked the idea of giving someone a shot at her dream. Thankfully for Eric’s sake, the fortysomething, nerdy butch lab tech was not just funny, she was hilarious. She had an animated comedic routine that left the patrons in tears and literally holding their stomachs from laughing so hard.

  Before Eric went back up to his apartment he decided to drop by the shop. He waved at Howard’s crew already cleaning the boat in its slip. He noticed the cowboys’ Mercedes already gone from the parking lot. Not a good sign. Howard always invited his deep-sea fishing clients to stay for drinks and a gourmet feast he and Eric would whip up on the short-order flat grill. Instead, he found his boss behind the shop counter, opening the UPS shipments for the day with his cell phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder.

  Eric was six foot and lean, probably in the best shape he had been in years. Howard, however, had what Eric would describe as a commanding presence at six foot five, a barrel chest and muscular arms, usually dressed in bright boat shirts—today’s an orange and blue marlin pattern—and white linen trousers, sometimes a white captain’s cap. Eric guessed Howard to be in his sixties, the thick white hair and mustache the only indicators. He had watched the man handle a five-hundred-pound marlin with little effort and watched him break up a brawl by grabbing unruly patrons by the scruff of their necks. He’d also seen Howard apply fine brushstrokes with a delicate touch to one of his model ships.

  Howard gave Eric a nod, a familiar greeting when he was on the phone or with a customer. Something was different this time. Howard grabbed the phone, shoving aside a half-unpacked box and cutting short the conversation with a quick “Let me get back to you.”

  Eric pretended not to notice his abruptness. Maybe he was being paranoid. And why not, after everything with Sabrina?

  “The Texans left already?” Eric asked.

  “No catch. And no one had much of an appetite,” Howard said, shaking his head, but he didn’t sound surprised or disappointed. “The one boy started retching up a storm before we even got settled.”

  “Mr. Bring-on-the-girls? The guy with the cowboy boots?” Eric smiled. He couldn’t help it. He knew it as soon as he saw the guy.

  “He’s just lucky I ended up feeling sorry for him,” Howard said, stroking his mustache out of habit. “We hadn’t left the slip and he was being an asshole to Wendi.”

  Eric knew Howard was protective of his crew though he hired only the best. But Eric also knew Wendi could take care of herself. Without much effort she could probably make Mr. Cowboy Boots cry like a baby.

  “Hopefully tomorrow’s group will do better.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they will.” Howard sounded confident. “They’re from Minnesota. They know a thing or two about fishing up there.” He went back to unpac
king the boxes.

  “I had to close up this morning for a few hours,” Eric told him, even though he knew Howard wouldn’t mind. And he was right. His boss only nodded, not even looking up for an explanation.

  “A friend of mine showed up.”

  Again he only nodded.

  “She’s gonna stay with me for several days,” Eric added.

  This, however, did get Howard’s attention. With anyone else Eric might have expected a wink along with some smart-ass comment like “Sure, she’s just a friend.” But Howard was a gentleman.

  “Bring her on down later,” Howard invited, meaning the bar to hang out with the others. “I look forward to meeting her.”

  Eric said he would and caught himself wishing that just once Howard wouldn’t be such a nice guy. It’d make what Eric was doing here on Pensacola Beach so much easier.

  73

  Tallahassee, Florida

  Abda Hassar had spent the day in his hotel room. He put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door as soon as room service delivered his breakfast. Then he connected his laptop to the hotel’s wireless network. Qasim and Khaled had checked into the same hotel, only at different times. Each had his own room on different floors. Later they would meet at a coffee shop across the street and pretend to study Qasim’s textbooks like university students, not tourists.

  Abda had left e-mails at various Web sites. Throughout the day he would pick up the responses and piece together their message. So far they were telling him nothing new. From every indication the plan was still on. Unless something dramatic happened in the next several days, EchoEnergy would grab up contracts that for years had gone to Middle Eastern oil companies. The contracts were small in the scope of business dealings. Their absence would not threaten to bankrupt or even create a ripple of economic harm to any one of these companies. But the contracts were not about money, nor were they about oil, but instead, goodwill and influence.

  For years the contracts had been rewards to Abda’s countrymen for standing firm with the United States against other Arab states, indifferent to America’s fight against terrorism. Taking away these contracts was nothing less than a slap in the face. The current president did not understand this despite its being spoken about over and over in plain diplomatic language, and so perhaps he would understand it in the only language his administration appeared to take notice of.

  They had worked hard, or rather Khaled had, for months, creating a plan that would have the greatest impact, but also one that would be undetectable by the hordes of security the president surrounded himself with. At first Khaled thought he had done just that—an explosive device made from purely harmless liquids that separately would draw no attention.

  Brilliantly, Khaled contained each liquid in a small plastic bottle that looked no different from an ordinary bottle of water with a pull-top, the type that allowed a drink without twisting off the lid. But Khaled’s pull-top included a sharp plastic point, sharp enough to pierce and attach to the bottom of another bottle. It took three bottles, three ordinary bottles of what would appear to be clear water. When the third, the last, pierced the middle bottle, it took but seconds for the liquids to mix, to seep into each other.

  The explosion that followed would be massive. It would kill everyone at the reception banquet, including the martyr who stayed behind to combine the bottles.

  Khaled had even volunteered to be the martyr. But Abda was the leader. And Abda rejected the idea. He believed an explosion of that magnitude would be dismissed as just another brutal terrorist attack. He believed they needed something as deadly but targeted, so there could be no mistake as to what and for whom their message was meant.

  Khaled complied and went back to his test tubes and vials and computer formulas. And again, he delivered a brilliant and deadly solution.

  Abda pulled out the innocuous prescription bottle, the capsules inside simple blood pressure medicine. All but one. He knew it from a dimpled marking on the end that he could detect by touch. Instead of medicine, the grains inside were fatal, a concoction Khaled had perfected. More deadly than anthrax, the white, grainy powder had no taste or smell. When applied to food it would not even be noticed. Within seconds the recipient’s throat would begin to swell, choking off all breath. There would be no rescue and best of all there would be no indication of what had caused the suffocation.

  To Abda, Khaled’s potion was brilliant. Its properties were undetectable and fatal, and it allowed them to choose exactly who would die. They would use science to teach this administration a costly lesson. This administration thought they could walk away from promises made only because they thought they had found a scientific freedom with EchoEnergy. And in that sense, Abda believed it was not only a lesson but a sort of poetic justice they were about to serve up.

  74

  Washington, D.C.

  Jason scraped the last of the pad thai noodles from the bottom of the container. He stuffed it all into his mouth without taking his eyes off his computer screen. Everyone had left him behind. The security guard had checked in on him three times. Jason was beginning to wonder if the guy was really worried about him or only wanted to make sure he wasn’t stealing congressional secrets of some sort.

  Jason went back and forth between William Sidel and Zach Kensor. It was just as easy to run two names through the systems he was intruding on. He hadn’t found anything much in Zach’s financial profile other than the typical stuff for a guy his age. In some ways it reminded Jason of his own pathetic financial life, decent money but not much to show.

  He clicked through another bank statement for EchoEnergy. William Sidel’s business accounts, however, resembled a politician’s. It appeared that there wasn’t an investment firm or millionaire Sidel wouldn’t take money from. By the same token he paid out exorbitant amounts of money to several so-called NFP—not-for-profit—funds. Actually, some of them may have been legit, but Jason recognized a couple as questionable lobbyists. Or at least that’s what they pretended to be. As a private, not publicly owned company, EchoEnergy could pick and choose its investors without many limits. It could not, however, use charity fronts to bribe congressional representatives. It would probably be pretty hard for Jason to prove. Still, he printed out the statements and highlighted the questionable NFPs.

  He was exhausted. His eyes burned from too many hours in front of the computer screen. He had wasted an entire day. Tomorrow he had to finish up the details for the energy summit reception. There was a load of paperwork he still needed to fill out and hand in. JVC’s Emerald Coast Catering had faxed over the menu for approval. And he hadn’t even given the Appropriations Committee a second thought. Instead, he was obsessed with finding something, anything, that confirmed his gut instinct about William Sidel. What the hell was it that Sidel could be holding over Senator Allen?

  Jason went over and over the phone conversation the senator had had with Sidel that morning. He had never seen the senator back down from anyone and yet that’s exactly what he was doing every time with Sidel. It was a gut instinct that had Jason convinced Sidel had given Senator Allen some sort of ultimatum.

  In the beginning Jason had thought it was an even exchange. Senator Allen would see to it that the military contract got passed by the Appropriations Committee. For Sidel that meant extra funds as well as respect and credibility. For Senator Allen it boosted his reputation with environmentalists and patriots and would give him a strong made-in-America platform for a possible presidential run. An even exchange, but Jason suspected there was something more. What did Sidel have in his corner that had thrown off the balance and tipped it all in his favor?

  Jason had already gone over Sidel’s personal accounts, but now he brought up his Visa year-to-date one more time. Again, nothing all that interesting. Sidel collected antiques. He treated himself to expensive haircuts once a month and a pedicure every week. No manicure, though. Sidel spent more money on memberships and fees to exclusive private clubs than Jason made in a year. There was the C
hampions Golf Club, the Gulf Coast Yacht Club, the South Beach Spa and Resort and the Sandshaker Health Club.

  He had made trips to D.C. twice in the last eight months, both times staying at the Washington Grand Hotel. The first time Jason noticed the trips and the hotel, it stopped him cold. He had probably made the reservations for Sidel at Senator Allen’s request without even knowing they were for Sidel. But that didn’t mean much, either. Of course Sidel would visit D.C. And why shouldn’t he stay at one of the city’s finest hotels at the recommendation of his friend?

  Jason decided to collect all the documents and financial statements he had printed out and go home. He could spread everything out and take another look. If he remembered correctly, he still had a couple of beers in the fridge that might help along the process. He started stuffing copies into his briefcase when he noticed something that made him stop. Maybe he was simply tired and imagining things. He pulled out the only three statements he had printed out from Zach’s meager profile.

  Jason scanned the credit card charges. He took it line by line, looking for something that had caught his eye earlier. It didn’t mean much the first time he had noticed it, but now it seemed too much of a coincidence.

  There it was. Five months ago on January 20. A credit card charge at a hotel gift shop. No other charges to indicate the trip except a $29.54 charge at the South Beach Spa and Resort gift shop.

  Jason grabbed the pages from Sidel’s Visa charges for January. Sure enough, there was a $2,024 charge for January eighteenth through the twentieth. Quite a coincidence that both men would be at the same expensive resort at the same time. Especially since one was living from paycheck to paycheck.

  75

  Pensacola Beach, Florida