DAYBREAK: a gripping thriller full of suspense (Titan Trilogy Book 3) (11 page)

The wind cut through his clothes and stung his skin. “Tell me.”

“US Cyber Command. They’re the ones really responsible for the development of the internet. Alongside the Department of Defense — or, really, as a silent partner, Cyber Command built the initial World Wide Web.”

“How do you know this?”

Lazard shrugged. “It’s public information. It’s all public information, if you know where to look. But many people in your country don’t know. Or, don’t want to. And, okay, also because the CSS has been the service used by the International Monetary Fund for more than ten years. The Fund leads geopolitics. The CSS enforces, so does the CIA, so does everyone, really; all foreign policy efforts come down to money. The CSS recruits from black-operative covens like the Joint Special Forces Command. A few navy seals, some marines. Men and women who have seen the agenda first hand. Men and women who have given up all semblance of a normal life.”

“Staryles.”

“Yes. Staryles is one of them.”

“But Staryles was working for Heilshorn.”

“Assigned to him, yes, most probably.”

“Why? What does Heilshorn have to do with the Central Security Service?” Brendan had his own theories, convictions he had already shared with Sloane Dewan, beliefs he had already spat into the face of Heilshorn himself, and seen them confirmed in Heilshorn’s eyes, but he wanted to hear it from Lazard.

“Liquidity, for one. Underground capitalism. The existence of the black markets to prop up the economy. But, ultimately, control. Control of the money. What else?”

The two men faced one another through the windblown swirls of snow, the CO watching them from inside the door to the yard.

“The US wants to maintain itself as the world power, Mr. Healy. It must maintain control of the money supply, of the petrodollar. When contractors like Halliburton, amongst others, cost the taxpayer billions, fresh revenue is needed to maintain the status quo. Your country is the largest financial contributor to my former organization, the IMF. So of course we must talk together with the biggest politico-military organization you have. Shame, I just couldn’t resist that little maid.”

His eyes glassed over as he looked beyond Brendan, into the weather. “You see? I took a chance. Like any good businessman, any good investor, I must calculate risk. I must look ahead to the future. I must see several steps ahead, and then I must act, even against that risk.”

Brendan realized they were talking not just about the housekeeper who claimed sexual assault, but Lazard’s responsibilities with the IMF, and perhaps something else.

“I’m wondering if you’re really here in Rikers because of something you did to a housekeeper,” Brendan said.

Lazard grinned. Melting snow coursed down his expressive features. “Maybe not,” he said. “Maybe we are both here for greater reasons than the allegations suggest.” He raised his considerable eyebrows, then grew serious. “I see the decentralization of money as the biggest threat your country faces. Not being able to control the money supply. Not to regulate, tax, and control.”

The storm intensified. Brendan glanced once more at the CO who remained beyond the door. He was watching the two convicts, with an amused expression. Perhaps he liked seeing them pummeled by the wind. Brendan turned back to Lazard.

“Most people dismiss these attempts to decentralize money as libertarian junk. Or the idea of the government controlling the population in these Machiavellian ways as wacko conspiracy theories.”

Lazard stepped closer, the snow a thick, shifting curtain between him and Brendan. “Maybe so. And then again, most people thought
Mein Kampf
was a fairytale when it first came out.”

Eddie Stemp sat on top of a red tractor at his sprawling farm in Barneveld, NY. The two black SUVs pulled into his driveway, churning up the dust. Jennifer exited the first vehicle and started over towards Stemp. She raised her hand in a wave. He stayed where he was on his tractor, clocking them like a sniper. She knew he was a former soldier, from the information collected during the Heilshorn case, though she hadn’t been able to find records of it in the State Department files. She kept her hand in the air.

“Edward Stemp?”

“Good morning, sister,” he said, and put on a big smile. He climbed down from the tractor and suddenly he became friendly. He wiped his hands on a rag hanging from his belt and offered his hand. She took it, his grip was rough and calloused.

Two security guards flanked her. Stemp turned his high-wattage smile on them, and his eyes darted to the third, who remained by the vehicles.

Stemp was shirtless, well-muscled, tanned, and sweaty. He had short dark hair, pearly white teeth. There was something about him that recalled an experience she’d had in college. She’d once met the head of one of the religious groups on campus, and he’d emitted a cultish vibe, a stoned-immaculate look like he’d drunk the Kool Aid. Stemp’s demeanor wasn’t exactly that, but there was a reach to his gaze she found discomfiting. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said to her bodyguards, raising his voice for the benefit of the one furthest away.

Stemp watched him for a moment, his head still, his eyes following as the security guard started a sweep of the property.

“I’m sorry about all of this,” Jennifer said. “I’m not used to an entourage.”

“Oh not at all,” Stemp said, but she thought it was a false decorum. And she knew her detail was on edge after the scare at Largo’s place.

“Would you like some coffee?” He gestured towards the small, quaint farmhouse behind him. The house was surrounded with fields. Green shoots poked up in furrows of soil, pointing through the wavering heat towards the horizon. “My wife is taking the kids to Bible study, and then she has her errands. The place is ours for an hour or so.” Stemp gave Jennifer a look. He was telling her that it was all the time they had.

“Coffee would be great,” she said.

He nodded, wiped his hands again and glanced at each of the three guards.

Jennifer turned to the men standing beside her and said, “Thank you, gentlemen.” That was their cue to remain outside. “Ma’am,” said the guard on her right.

She and Stemp went into the house.

* * *

The house smelled like bacon and coffee. The kitchen was small with a faded linoleum floor, white washed cabinetry, a breakfast table against a wall and a window with a view out over the property.

Jennifer was looking out at the cornfield when Stemp put a steaming mug of coffee in front of her. She pointed to the earth with rows of green shoots. “Knee-high by the Fourth of July?”

He nodded and sat down across from her. “Corn grows very well here.”

“How long have you been working this land?”

His eyes rolled up to look at the ceiling as he considered. She could smell his sweat. He had pulled on a cut-off flannel shirt. His dungarees were stained with paint, oil, and dirt, and he wore large work boots with the steel toes worn through the leather. “Seven years,” he said, and dropped his gaze to her. “Yep. Seven lucky years.” He sipped his coffee. When he was finished he said, “In all that time I’ve never been visited by anyone from the US Department of Justice.”

“I apologize for the unscheduled visit.”

He waved a hand in the air, grime under the fingernails, dirt caked into the creases of the skin. “It’s a welcome break from all the work.”

“I can’t even imagine. What prompted you to get into farming? Family business?”

He was shaking his head, no. “My family business is military. My father worked for NORAD for thirty-five years.” It was a frank statement.

“You were in Iraq?”

He nodded. “Briefly. Early on.”

She looked him over. “You must’ve been young.”

“I was in the multinational force. Coalition forces.” He seemed to look into the past.

“But that wasn’t all for you. You stayed in Iraq, but you went into something else?”

Now his eyes snapped into place and he gave her an edgy look. She flinched.

“I did,” he said. “I went into private security.”

Jennifer tried the coffee, which was strong and sweet. This was a significant link in the chain, but she didn’t want to betray that and make Stemp nervous. She acted like it was no big deal. She thought of Largo talking about Titan’s no-bid contracts in the Middle East.

“And you . . . what job did you do when you returned stateside? Before you started farming.”

Stemp grew rigid. “Ma’am,” he said, “you told me on the phone this was about tying up loose ends on the Heilshorn murder. Now, I’m happy to reiterate what I told the detectives back then. But if you’re looking for more than that, I think you need to be forthcoming.”

She set her coffee down and sat back a little. “Of course, Mr. Stemp.”

“Call me Kim.”

“Kim?”

“My given name.”

“I’m not trying to conceal an agenda here, Kim. I am following up on the Heilshorn murder, absolutely. I know you’re a smart man. You’ve been forthcoming about your time in the military and, as you said, private security. I appreciate that very much. What I’d like to ask is whether or not your transition into working as a driver for XList escorts was facilitated in any way by your employer in Iraq. And who that employer was: Meecham, Blackwater, or someone else?”

He set his coffee down on the table beside him. He remained straight as a board, and placed his hands on his dusty knees. Like a diligent parishioner in a church pew, perhaps. Jennifer caught sight of movement outside as one of the dark shapes of her detail moved past the window.

“I stayed in security when I returned home. It was enough to provide me the start-up capital for my farm. To provide for my family.”

“I don’t doubt your integrity or your devotion to your family, and your finances are none of my business. But, Mr. Stemp, I’ve just visited Philip Largo. So if you’re uncomfortable revealing your Iraq employer, I wonder if we could talk about Largo instead. And Rebecca.”

Stemp said nothing. He remained statue-like at the table. His eyes, Jennifer saw, seemed to gray over a little.

She could hear the ticking of a clock in the other room. It was hot and sticky in the kitchen. A bowl of fruit, pestered with fruit flies, sat on a hammered chest. The window beside the table was open but there was no breeze coming through the screen. It was the type of humid summer day that soaked clothes and frizzed out hair. The sky had been open, but she could see a wall of hazy clouds on the horizon.

Stemp had gone mute, so she continued.

“My understanding is that you were in the business of driving escorts, while Rebecca Heilshorn was still involved.”

Something passed behind Stemp’s eyes. Then he blinked, as if awakening from a daydream, and he turned and looked out the window. His posture seemed to relax and he picked up his coffee.

“Rebecca has a child named Leah, correct?”

She watched this register in his expression and continued. “During the course of the investigation, the detectives considered you as a possible paternal match for Leah. But that’s not the case.”

His gaze was cool, and growing cooler in all the heat. “No, ma’am.”

“But you know who her real father is, I think. Do you, Mr. Stemp?”

He brought the mug of coffee to his lips, never taking his eyes off her. His crow’s feet deepened as he concentrated on her. The moment became uncomfortable. Then he lowered the mug and spoke.

“Yeah, this is a great plot of land for corn. Potatoes, lettuces, carrots — just the right PH balance to the soil. You’ve got to regulate soil temperature, though, that’s key.”

“It was Rebecca who brought the trouble to Philip Largo,” she said, ignoring his non sequitur. “Largo believes it might be related to his move to block construction of a building in Albany. That and he just didn’t step to the tune someone wanted him to. Alexander Heilshorn. Who, if I may make a rather circuitous connection, is affiliated with your employer in Iraq. And I believe that employer was Titan.”

Nothing at all now from Stemp. He only watched the rippling heat over the cornfield; she saw his eyes seek out those same shouldering thunderheads in the distance. Perhaps she’d pushed too hard too soon, but time was running out.

“Just about seven years ago,” she recapped, “about when you started here on your farm, Largo was caught with a prostitute. He claims he didn’t know she was a working girl, but the media didn’t care, his opponent for governor didn’t care — it was chum in the water. So nobody bothered to publicize his version of the story. There were no criminal actions because the girl hadn’t, in fact, ever declared herself a pro.”

“You seem like a nice woman,” Stemp said.

“Mr. Stemp, Philip Largo can identify you picking up the escort after the night that brought him down.”

“I told you, ma’am, I admitted it. I drove for XList. I’m not proud of it.”

She felt a minor relief, but she didn’t think his statement was accurate. He hadn’t admitted working for XList, specifically, until just now. “Is that all you did, drive the escorts? Protect them?”

“Mrs. Aiken, I have a family.”

“We can protect you.”

He shook his head. “No you can’t.”

“Mr. Stemp. Kim. We are the Justice Department. We coordinate with the FBI, with Homeland Security. My task force is set up so that we can do exactly this — obtain critical information and protect our sources.”

“Ma’am . . .”

“I’m pretty sure you were a bagman. In addition to picking up and dropping off the women, you picked up money. I need to know where that money was going, Mr. Stemp. I need to establish a chain of custody, follow the money up to the top, and I want you to testify before a grand jury.”

He laughed.

She ignored it. “Can you at least tell me how you went from working private security abroad to here in the states? Is it the same company? Is Titan putting ex-soldiers to work as escort bodyguards?”

He looked out the window, his mug of coffee hovering above the table in his grip. His laughter faded into a smile. Then he blinked, his humor evaporating, his eyes losing their focused aspect as he looked inwards.

At last he spoke. “One of the top managers of the firm I worked for threatened to kill a US Department of State investigator,” he said. “There was a probe coming. Evaluation of the firm’s performance.”

His eyes found her again, and they were haunted. She could see her reflection in the dark irises. He reminded her of Ewon Parnell, and she felt her stomach knotting.

Easy. Easy now.

(Agent Apollo, Apollo Helios, God of Plagues)

“Two weeks later, twenty-three civilians were shot and killed in Nisour Square, in Baghdad.”

“I remember.”

“Yeah? Do you remember that the embassy sided with the firm? The State Department investigators were ordered to leave. And it looked to Iraq and to the whole world that private security firms on the US payroll could do whatever they want, with impunity.”

“If I recall, four members of the firm went to trial here in the States.”

“And what happened?”

Jennifer tried to remember exactly what the outcome had been, but she’d been under pressure at the time to finish her thesis in order get into the DOJ, which had offered her a position pending graduation. But she could assume where Stemp was going with this.

“They’re above the law,” he said. “You don’t stir up that kind of liability and negligence protecting a few diplomats. That was dirty from the start, and continued to be dirty, and when it came time for me to stand in front of the jury, they buried me up here in farm country and gave me the job driving XList girls, in exchange for my silence.” He looked at her, and his eyes were burning coals. “I say anything, and what will happen to me will be worse than what happened to those state investigators. Much worse. That’s why you’re never going to get what you want. I can’t give it. Largo can’t give it. No one can. They’ve got us all, right where it hurts. They got to Argon, and they’re toying with Healy, too. You should know that.”

She ignored the remark about Healy, though it pained her. “I know there are lives at stake. That’s exactly why I’m here. Your family’s lives, but also others. In order to keep everything flowing and everything hidden away, sacrifices are made. Women are exploited. Children are used like tools.”

There was a loud crash, the table shook, and Jennifer was splattered with hot coffee before she even realized what had happened. Stemp had brought down the hovering coffee mug with tremendous force, shattering the mug against the kitchen table and spraying the coffee everywhere.

“Don’t you think I know that? I tried to get Rebecca
out
. We were
both
trying to get out. She didn’t want to be the one to entrap Largo. She was against it, she was going to come out with it — her brother was trying to help her — and look what happened to them. They manipulated her like a slave. You know what they do? They give some of the girls fake birth control.”