Measure of Darkness (22 page)

W
hen the door chime sounds at nine-fifteen I'm in the library, updating the timeline. So far as I'm aware we're not expecting guests at this hour. Boss lady had declared a pizza night, releasing Mrs. Beasley from her duties. We, that is all those currently in the residence, happily chowed down on slices from Regina's, picked up curb-side by yours truly, and then called it a day. Milton, understandably uneasy about returning to his home, has been offered a guest room, for which he seemed pleased and grateful. Dane has returned to her own residence, located a few blocks away, and promises to be available at a moment's notice. Jack called from some bar, sounding more stressed than he usually lets on, and announced he would be returning to Gloucester for the night and would report first thing in the morning. Apparently his thrilling escape from the woods of New Hampshire left him in need of quality time with his current spouse, although he didn't say so, not in those words. Teddy, dismayed by his failure to discover the now-obvious connection between Randall Shane and Taylor Gatling, Jr., retreated to his bat cave (others might call it a bedroom, but bat cave is more illustrative, believe me) where he's currently suck
ing down energy drinks and playing the latest version of “God of War,” which is his form of sulking. No doubt he'll slay a few thousand adversaries before daylight and return to the real world renewed if not exactly refreshed.

Boss lady, believe it or not, is watching a baseball game. When I left her she had the sound down and was staring rather listlessly at the screen—the Sox struggling in Toronto—obviously lost in her own thoughts.

“I'm missing something,” she said, and refused to elaborate.

Which is why I'd returned to the timeline and my notes, looking to find something that had been overlooked, something that might be useful. No matter how I fiddle and push, and even including the rather tumultuous revelations of the past twenty-four hours, there are still way more unknowns than knowns. By far the most important being the location of Kathleen Mancero and Joey Keener.

Responding to the door chime happens to be one of my many duties. In this particular instance whoever is pushing the button won't stop, so I'm more than ready to read whoever it is the riot act.

The security camera reveals a tall, middle-aged female with the build of a college linebacker. Unknown to me. For all I know she could be lost, or selling something, or intending to murder us all. So I press the intercom and request that she state her name clearly and into the microphone. “Mon-i-ca Bevins.
B-e-v-i-n-s,
” she says, spelling it out. “
F-B-I.
Clear enough? Now open the damn door!”

She really gets pissed when I make her show ID, but it can't be helped, those are the house rules.

 

We convene in the library. We being me, Teddy, Naomi and Dane. Our intrepid attorney having arrived
in less than five minutes, so she obviously wasn't fibbing about being at home for the evening. Milton Bean, sound asleep in a guest room, has not been awakened, by instructions of the boss. This could be a need-to-know kind of deal and she'll make that determination when the facts are in place.

Although neither as tall nor as large of frame as Randall Shane, Monica Bevins is nevertheless imposing in a similar manner, and it doesn't help that she seems to be in foul temper. She strides around the room as if looking for something to hit, which may explain why Teddy cringes slightly whenever she veers in range.

“First, I want your assurance that what I have to say will not be taped or in any way recorded,” she demands.

“You have it,” Naomi responds instantly.

“If anybody gets wind of this, I'm finished. Ruined. I'd be prosecuted for sure.”

One of boss lady's best traits is that the more difficult the situation, the more calm she exudes. Maybe it's a Zen thing, but wherever she gets it from, it works. Faced with Naomi's utter calm, Bevins's rage slowly subsides and she eventually begins to circle one of the larger armchairs and finally perches like some great bird of prey, ready to plummet from on high if a target presents itself.

She says, in a calmer tone, “The only reason we can do this at all is because I happen to know this place, this building, is secure from wiretapping. Because you
are
under surveillance, you know that, right?”

“By your minions and others,” Naomi says. “Therefore it will already be known that you came to this door and entered this residence.”

“I'm aware of that,” Bevins snaps.

“Perhaps you are here to demand answers. In which case your presence is justified.”

Bevins shakes her head. “An assistant director doesn't do fieldwork, or conduct interviews out of office, or take statements that can't be confirmed by another agent. We most certainly do not confide details of an ongoing investigation to a private investigator.”

Naomi cocks her head. “Ah, so that's the dilemma. You need a reason to be here.”

Bevins, looking miserable, nods.

“Perhaps I refused your request for an interview, but agreed to make a statement to you alone, under my own terms,” Naomi suggests, adding, “I do have that sort of reputation.”

Bevins remains skeptical. “What would be the nature of your statement? What can I take back that would hold up?”

Naomi shrugs. “How about this: we know who abducted Randall Shane and why.”

Bevins appears to be shocked. Some of her poised-to-leap strength seems to weaken. “You do?”

“Certainly. The operation to detain and interrogate Randall Shane was ordered if not directly supervised by Taylor Gatling, Jr., under the aegis of his company, Gatling Security Group, and with, we must assume, the direction and approval of his bosses at the Pentagon or Homeland. The specific agency has not yet been determined by us, but we assume that whoever it is acts under authority of the Patriot Act. Had you waited until tomorrow, this would have been duly reported by Attorney Porter, either to you or to the Agent In Charge.”

Bevins looks thoughtful. “I am the AIC of this particular case,” she points out.

“Which case? The frame Randall Shane case? The missing-child case?”

“The Joseph Keener case. Because of national security, his murder takes precedence over the missing child.”

“Ah,” says Naomi.

“It wasn't up to me.”

“No, of course it wasn't,” Naomi says.

“I'm a cog in a very large machine,” Bevins says. “Although that could change tomorrow. Would you really have reported your suspicions about GSG involvement?”

Very carefully Naomi says, “I would never lie about a thing like that. Moreover, I want the FBI involved in the hunt for Joey Keener.”

“So that's my excuse for being here?”

“Sounds legitimate to me,” says Naomi. “Surely you can make it sound convincing.”

“Maybe I can at that.” The big woman clears her throat. “Can I ask you a favor? Could I get a glass of water?”

Naomi doesn't have to ask. I leap to my feet and return in flash time with water, ice and glasses for everyone. Teddy had mouthed the words
Red Bull
as I left the room, but I pretended not to notice, since he's already shivering from the effects of too much caffeine.

After drinking deeply, Bevins carefully cradles the empty water glass in both hands, as if absorbing the coolness. Apparently resolved to continue, despite whatever legal, moral or personal jeopardy may be involved.

“Just as well you made the Gatling connection,” she begins. “I won't have to explain that part. You're familiar with what his company does in the war zone?”

“In general,” Naomi says. “As a private contractor, GSG provides security, interrogation and forward reconnaissance, including target identification. Also heavy involvement in Predator drones, the arming, flight and
maintenance thereof. Young Mr. Gatling seems to have a hand in every aspect of the war on terror.”

Bevins nods slowly. “That he does. And that's where the problem lies. He's become, shall we say, just a bit too enthusiastic.”

“By enthusiasm, you mean torture.”

Bevins looks surprised. “No, that's not what I meant. Okay, yes, you're right, his crews have been accused of taking it too far, the so-called chemical interrogations, but that's not what I came to tell you about. You already know that part.”

“There's another part?”

“Oh yes,” Bevins says. “The part where Taylor Gatling goes rogue. The part where he plays God. The part where his powerful friends, many of whom have become rich with his help, have conspired to assist him in his mission, or at least to cover for him when the crap hits the fan.”

That has us all sitting up straight, paying attention.

“What I'm about to tell you is classified. The mere fact that I'm sharing it with you is a crime.”

“Only if someone in this room testified to such,” Naomi says. “I assure you, that's not going to happen.”

“Okay,” Bevins says. “Here goes. You're aware that Gatling's interrogation units were accused of injecting suspects with so-called ‘truth serum' drugs, correct? That was in the public record. That's when the so-called Intelligence Committee went into executive session, to hear the rest of the testimony. The minutes of that meeting have been heavily redacted, but I was able to look at the original testimony. GSG actions go way beyond chemical interrogations. On more than one occasion his civilian crews have targeted suspected terrorists without authorization. They have launched Predator missiles, Hellfire missiles and taken out targets
on
their own.
This is clear from the testimony. For months Gatling had been complaining to his Pentagon superiors that the CIA, which has the authority to order assassination strikes, had frequently refused to do so because they didn't trust some of the targets identified by Gatling's men. Thought they were being overenthusiastic, IDing every tribal leader with a beard as al Qaeda. Gatling disagreed, vehemently. He's one of the righteous, a true patriot, and they're a bunch of CIA wimps afraid to pull the trigger, defend their own country, even if it does mean the occasional wedding party gets blown to smithereens, or a school is mistakenly targeted, both of which happened. You get the picture? Taylor Gatling is running his own private war. He has the men, he has the ability to deliver death from the air and he has used it. This is well-known within the Pentagon, but if you think that means Gatling is about to be prosecuted or his contracts canceled, you would be wrong.”

“Because of the retired generals, the ones who invested in Gatling Security Group.”

“Exactly, and a number of lower-ranking officers, all of whom covet high-paying jobs with GSG when they retire or resign. Which means they're willing to provide cover by retroactively approving Gatling's targets. Covering both his ass and theirs. Pretending it was all a mistake, the authorization got lost in the paperwork. The Intelligence Sub-Committee has so far done nothing about it, and if we're waiting for them to grow balls, we could be waiting forever. It's far easier, and less dangerous politically, to look the other way.”

“It has ever been thus,” Naomi points out. “But what has this to do with Professor Keener?”

Bevins gives boss lady a steely look, as if daring her to make the connection. “Nothing, directly. But some
thing else came up before the committee, in secret testimony. Something very instructive, if you know enough to pay attention. There was a question about GSG's involvement in unauthorized domestic surveillance.”

“QuantaGate.”

“Yes. QuantaGate, and specifically Professor Keener. That push to have the FBI investigate Keener? It came from Gatling himself. And when the Bureau reported finding no evidence of espionage, Mr. Gatling apparently decided to take matters into his own hands. He had become convinced that Keener was, indeed, passing secrets to the Chinese, and initiated what he called ‘countermeasures.' He claims, and the committee apparently believes him, that the so-called countermeasures were nothing more than surveillance, as authorized by the Patriot Act.”

“But you don't believe that.”

“Someone targeted Keener for assassination. It could have been Gatling.”

“And he framed Shane at the same time, as revenge for testifying against his father?”

Bevins shrugs her agreement. “Two birds with one stone.”

“This all makes sense,” Naomi says. “It fits the facts as we know them. But one thing I don't understand, one thing that haunts me: If Gatling knew he was going to have Keener taken out, to prevent him passing secrets, why kidnap the boy at all? Why take Joey Keener?”

Bevins has a strange look on her face. The same look people get just before they're going to be sick. “I was hoping you knew,” she says.

 

As near as he can determine, the security system at the Nantz residence is state-of-the-art. There are no
cheesy stickers guaranteeing quick response, because pros know that the logos are a dead giveaway as to what kind of system is in place, and therefore how to defeat it. The installation has been subtle, but Kidder knows what to look for. Every window, door and lock has been equipped with pressure-sensitive alarm devices. There are at least a dozen mini surveillance cameras mounted on various corners, and those are only the ones he can see. No doubt they'd been installed by professionals and cover every conceivable angle. Bust out a single pane, an alarm starts blaring, either at a security service, or the local cops, or both. Plus you'll be starring on the video cameras. Hi there, world, this is me on my way to prison.

Too bad Nantz hasn't contracted with Gama Guards. The very thought makes him want to giggle. That would be too easy, and not all that much fun. Bottom line, it doesn't matter what kind of system she has, or how foolproof they think it is, there's one surefire, never-fail way around it.