Aphrodite Part 24

"Then let me finish my story and we'll get back to that."

As Justin picked up the thread from where he'd left off, he saw Mal-lone shaking his head in disbelief. But now he was reliving the events of the past few days. He listed the string of murders: Wallace Crabbe, Brian Meves, Ed Marion, Lewis Granger. He told them about Maura Greer's body being found in the bay and Agent Rollins taking over that case while sabotaging the investigation into Susanna's murder. He said that he was certain Rollins had murdered Marion-which made Wanda c.h.i.n.kle's eyes narrow and her shoulders hunch defensively. Justin described the bomb under their car and the blond madman who said "Bye-bye." He told them about Rollins tapping Gary's phones and the disappearance of Helen Roag, and, finally, he said that the FBI was now tying him to the death of Maura Greer, someone he'd never even heard heard of until all this started happening. of until all this started happening.

It took Justin an hour and a half to go through every detail.

"Are you finished?" Wanda asked him.

"No," Justin said. "I've got an update. This was faxed to me a little while ago. I had someone hack into Marblehead phone-company records and Helen Roag's personal and business e-mail accounts."

"Jesus Christ," Wanda c.h.i.n.kle said. "Are you insane? Do you have any idea how much time you can get for that kind of stunt?"

"Yes, I do. And can we cut out the editorializing, please? Believe me, if I'm brought up on charges, this is going to be low man on the totem pole."

"Excellent point," Wanda said. "How good was your hacker?"

"Good enough, Wanda."

She lowered her eyes to the ground. "The business e-mail account wasn't very helpful. Helen was careful. As near as I can tell, she was some kind of researcher for this Boston company, the Aker Inst.i.tute. There's very little in her Aker correspondence other than standard corporate communications. But her personal account-here's where things get a little complicated. It looks like our Helen was feeding Aker's trade secrets to somebody. Actually, to two somebodies. My guy went back several months. At the beginning the e-mails were going to someone at the FBI. You want to handle this one, Wanda?"

"G.o.ddammit," the Boston AIC said. "How'd you get those files?"

"I had to hire the best." Justin rubbed his chin, realized he hadn't shaved in several days. "You were Helen Roag's contact."

"Yes."

"Why was Helen reporting to the FBI?"

"I can't tell you that, Jay. Not right now. I need a little time to think about this."

"But she stopped corresponding with you."

"That's right."

"She stopped feeding you info altogether?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I don't know exactly. I think she was scared."

"Maybe, but that's not the reason. 'Cause she didn't stop e-mailing. She just started e-mailing someone else."

"Someone in the FBI?" Wanda asked.

"No. There was a string of e-mails back and forth between Helen and-I'm glad you're all sitting down-Maura Greer."

"What?" This came from both Wanda c.h.i.n.kle and Billy DiPezio. And Justin thought he caught Deena's astonished voice in there, too.

"There's more. When my hacker went into the phone company, the phone records had been removed from the system. My guess is it was done by the FBI-I set them up a little bit to see how they'd respond. But my guy still managed to come up with a few interesting details. Wanda, you should know that your people are lazy. Or, more likely, incompetent. The computerized phone records were removed, but they didn't get the phone company to remove the electronic file for Helen's bill. Apparently, that's kept separately. She's made an enormous number of calls over the past three months to one number in Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C."

"Whose number?" That was Deena. She couldn't help herself.

"Don't know. Those records were blocked or erased. My guy couldn't get any more information."

"Did you call the number?" Roger asked.

"It's a beeper. I left three messages; no one's called back."

"But you've got an idea who it is," Wanda c.h.i.n.kle said.

"I've got a few ideas," Justin told her. "But I don't have a clue what any of them mean. That's why I need some help."

"I'll take my gun now," Billy DiPezio said. "If I may."

Justin retrieved all three guns from the corner of the room, handed one of them back to the chief. "You want your bullets?" he asked.

"Not yet," Billy said. "I don't want to tempt myself any."

Justin looked at Wanda, who scowled. "You son of a b.i.t.c.h," she said. "You were always a better cop than I was."

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"I don't know how much I can can tell you. Or how much of what I thought was going on is even true. I have to do some checking. But I will. And I won't try to stop you from whatever you're doing next." tell you. Or how much of what I thought was going on is even true. I have to do some checking. But I will. And I won't try to stop you from whatever you're doing next."

Justin looked at his father and smiled. He thought it was perhaps the first time in their lives that his father had ever smiled back. He glanced over at Roger Mallone. "What about you?" he asked.

"Me? I don't have a f.u.c.king clue what's going on," Roger said. "But this is the greatest thing that's ever happened to me. I am in in." He turned to face Jonathan Westwood. "I'm not going to get fired for this, am I?"

"There might even be a bonus in it for you," Jonathan said.

"All right then," Justin told his newly formed team. "I took the liberty of making a few lists. And I've already got a few things to add to them."

He began handing out sheets of paper and explaining exactly what he wanted them to do. Billy had the resources to go to the old-age homes that had called in to Marion or Roag's phone machines. Justin asked him to dig up the names of all the patients there who were in contact with Marion or Roag. The goal was to find something Miller and Granger and anyone else who turned up might have in common. A town, a person, a job-anything. "We need a link," he said. "If we get that, we'll be able to find the next link, which I think will be to Kransten."

Mallone was asked to gather every bit of information he could on Douglas Kransten. Roger gave Justin a brief explanation of Douglas Kransten's holdings and Justin said that he wanted the name and location of every possible company under Kransten's enormous corporate umbrella, as well as what they did. He wanted the names of executives, products, and development projects, as well.

Justin asked Wanda to break through the secrecy at the FBI. The most important thing she had to do was find whose phone Helen Roag had been calling. Then she had to discover whatever game it was that Rollins seemed to be playing.

"You were always a tough guy, Jay," Wanda said. "But Rollins isn't someone you want to take on."

"I don't need you to tell me that," he said. "Believe me. Unfortunately, I don't have a choice."

When he was done, and the three people he was now trusting to keep him alive had left, Justin went to the phone, dialed the number of the photo store in East End Harbor. They were closed, but the answering machine picked up. After the tone, Justin left his message.

"This is Clint calling for Gary Jenkins. Please tell him to buy his little brother an ice-cream soda or a new body piercing or anything he wants, for that matter. And tell him it's on me."

27.

a.s.sistant director in charge of the New York office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation Leonard Rollins had, during his nineteen years with the Bureau, been in many meetings, with many superiors, and given many briefings. None of those sessions, however, had ever been quite so high-powered or quite so tense. Or anywhere near this f.u.c.ked-up.

It was his turn to be quiet now. So Rollins looked around the table and contented himself by imagining how genuinely miserable every other person at the table was.

To Rollins's left was Brewster Ford. Ford was, without question, the most revered Wall Street mind of the past forty years. He was the mentor to every treasury secretary postDavid Stockman, regardless of party affiliation, and had been CEO of the two largest investment firms on the Street. Ford was given a huge amount of credit, by those in the know, for much of the backroom strategy that led to the remarkable economic boom of the nineties. He was now nearing eighty and was still an unofficial-but enormously valued-adviser to the current president of the United States.

To his left was Chase Welles, the recently appointed secretary of Health and Human Services. Welles was tapping his fingers nervously, distractedly, on the top of the conference table. He seemed out of place in this setting, out of his league socially and politically. Although he was in his early fifties and the only one in the group wearing a suit and tie, he gave the appearance of being a child sitting at the adults' dinner table.

On Welles's other side was Fred Hoagland, the president's chief of staff. This was Hoagland's second but nonconsecutive term in this position. He'd served twelve years ago and was considered a genius at subtly guiding, protecting, manipulating, and, in general, saving the a.s.s of whoever was serving as commander in chief. Hoagland was the ultimate political insider, never totally out of the Beltway loop, no matter who was in power.

Next to Hoagland was Donald Mooney, the president's old friend, ex-governor of Maryland, and current secretary of Homefront Security. Mooney seemed uncomfortable, not restless or nervous like Welles but, rather, melancholy. He looked like a man who was hearing a confession he desperately didn't want to listen to.

The next two men sitting at the table were Ronald Mayberry and Patrick Arnold, CEOs of the largest and second largest pharmaceutical companies in the United States. Both men seemed confident and relaxed. They had the air of rich, powerful men who were used to being obeyed and had never in their lives been intimidated by anyone or anything.

Completing the circle was Christopher Dahlberg, Rollins's boss, the director of the FBI. Dahlberg was quiet and conservative, but Rollins knew just how deadly he could be. The director was a viper disguised as a common garden snake.

"I want to make sure one thing is understood," the chief of staff was saying. "The president knows nothing about what is transpiring. He doesn't know about this meeting and he has not been informed of any of the events relating to this meeting that have transpired over the past several months."

"Nor is is he to know," Don Mooney said. "Ever." he to know," Don Mooney said. "Ever."

"I think you're being naive," Mayberry said.

"No question," Arnold agreed. "It's our understanding that the last three presidents have not only known about our agreement, they've wholeheartedly supported it."

"Well, things have changed," Mooney said. "You have not exactly stuck to the terms of the agreement."

"We have," Mayberry said. "We all have. For years. Except Kransten."

"That's a big f.u.c.king exception," Fred Hoagland said. "And it changes everything."

"He's out of our control," Arnold said. "We can't possibly oversee his work. Even if we could figure out some kind of arrangement here in the U.S., which would be impossible considering the level of compet.i.tion, his research facilities are scattered all over the world. There's no way we can keep track of what he's doing. That should be your job."

"It is is our job." It was the first time Rollins's boss, Chris Dahlberg, had spoken. "And we had things under control. Until recently." our job." It was the first time Rollins's boss, Chris Dahlberg, had spoken. "And we had things under control. Until recently."

"What happened?" This came from Mayberry.

"I think we all know what happened," Chase Welles said. "And I think we all know how it was resolved."

"Well, if it's been resolved, what's the problem?" Arnold said.

The director of the FBI tipped his chair backward. "There are quite a few problems. There have been some new ...wild cards, shall we say. But they are being taken care of, largely thanks to a.s.sistant Director Rollins."

The secretary of Health and Human Services began tapping the table with his finger. "We need a.s.surances from the two of you," he said to Mayberry and Arnold, "that what happened with Kransten won't happen with you and your companies."

"I'm not defending Kransten. You know I think the man's-how should I put this? Oh, screw it, Doug Kransten's a G.o.dd.a.m.n lunatic. Wild card doesn't begin to describe him. But you guys f.u.c.ked up here, not us. You have my a.s.surance that we'll play by the rules. But you've got to control your side."

"That's why I'm in this meeting," Welles said. "Our side's been controlled."

"Well, as long as that's the case," Arnold said, "you can obviously count on me, too."

"You know, we do read the news," Mayberry said. "We're not idiots. You've got a few things that don't seem to be so under control."

"Such as?" That was from Welles.

"Let's start with Kransten. If he's got what we all think he's got- even if he's reasonably close-and he makes it public ...do you have any idea what's going to happen?"

"Yes." It was Brewster Ford's first word. The financial adviser and wizard followed it up with "We know exactly what's going to happen. It's been my job for all these years to make sure the select few involved in the decision-making process truly understand the danger."

"And nothing's changed from your perspective?"

"Yes. Many things have changed. And they all make the situation more precarious than ever."

"And this administration shares that perspective?"

"I would say they are more supportive than any previous administration."

The pharmaceutical executives nodded, satisfied. "What else?" Fred Hoagland said.

"What else seems out of control?"

"Manwaring. He won't go away."

"He will."

"I'm not so sure," Mayberry said. "He's a bulldog. And he's a fanatic."

"And he's got no credibility. He's no threat."

"How about the cop? Is he a threat?"

Arnold nodded. "Yeah. What are you going to do about this cop? He seems totally out of control."

Hoagland looked down at the notepad he had in front of him, then swiveled to face Chris Dahlberg. "I think they have a point. This Westwood could be a serious problem."

Director Dahlberg leaned over, gave Len Rollins a hearty pat on the back. "I told you," he said. "This is AD Rollins's specialty. He's our our wild card." wild card."

Justin Westwood watched his mother come down the long spiral staircase into the foyer. He marveled at the fact that even at her age Lizbeth never seemed to walk down; it was as if she glided several inches off the floor. Her movements were fluid and graceful and serene. More than that, her steps were rich. His mother moved, Justin realized, as if she owned the ground in front of her. It didn't matter which ground she was walking on. She seemed to own it all.

She put her arm through his and led him into the den. His father was in the chaise longue, reading a financial report. He wore reading gla.s.ses, an added accoutrement since Justin had seen him last.

"They're both asleep upstairs," Lizbeth said. "I put Deena in the Blue Room. She conked out even before Kendall."

"Thanks."