Steve Martini - Trader of secrets

“I am looking for a place that is supposed to have a large antenna array. You know antennas, like television. Perhaps a big dish. Supposed to be a new facility of some kind here in the jungle.”

He looks back at me over his shoulder, squinting his eyes. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“Tourist,” I tell him.

“That is no place for turistas, ” he tells me.

“You know where it is?”

He nods.

“Take me there.”

He shakes his head no.

“I just need to see where it is,” I tell him.

He points off to the northwest. As we approach the area over the archaeological park at Coba, he banks to the right and flies for a few seconds until we find ourselves back out over the highway. It crosses an intersection, another paved road going due north. “There are many cenotes there. There used to be a small village. The landowners, the people with homes, have all been driven out. It is the cartels,” he says. “They cleared the jungle and made a landing strip, put up a big metal building of some kind. And what you call plato, umm…” He makes a cup with the open extended fingers and the palm of his right hand. He turns it up toward the sky and holds the flight stick with his other hand.

“A satellite dish?”

He nods. “There are three of them. Very big. Bigger than any I have ever seen before. One of them is the size of a large building. It’s no television?” he says.

“No. We could fly just a little ways up that road,” I tell him, “then we could turn and go toward the coast if you like.”

He shakes his head. “If I had known what you were looking for, I would not come,” he says. “Why do you want to go there?”

“I was told about it by someone.”

“Who?”

“A man in Paris,” I tell him. “Do you have any idea what they’re doing there?” I ask.

“No. And I don’t want to find out. Last time I flew over it, it was by mistake. They shot at me from the ground. No small stuff,” he says. “No pistols or rifles. Machine guns spitting out bullets of fire.”

“Tracers?”

He nods.

“Antiaircraft fire.”

“ Jess. They hit my wing. Punched holes in the fabric. Almost set it on fire. I was lucky to escape. I had to dive down just above the trees. I will not go near there again,” he says.

“How far up the road?” I ask.

He shakes his head as he starts the turn toward the coast. “You crazy if you go there,” he says.

“How far?”

“Kilometers, maybe twenty, perhaps a little more. Like I say, they forced the people from their homes. There is nothing there now except the big metal building and what you call the antennas. I am told that no one drives up that road any longer unless they are bringing materials or supplies. A man I know went up there in his truck a few months ago. He never came back.”

“Why doesn’t your government do something?” I ask.

He just shakes his head. “I don’t ask,” he says. “Sometimes it is best not to know.”

Sedrick Fowler was a political party animal, the kind Thorpe detested most. Managing partner of a powerful law firm in Boston and courtier to three presidential administrations, Fowler and his connections in national politics went back forty years.

Those who knew him well called him Foul behind his back. His religion may have been liberal, but he didn’t slum in the wards with the unwashed masses.

His law firm had a long list of billionaires and gold-plated corporate clients. Between stints doing good works in government, and for a substantial fee, he could get regulatory agencies to bend and the IRS to genuflect. The mere mention of his name could seal an international trade deal and give your company a generational monopoly on government contracts. The by-product of all this nuclear influence was a radioactive amount of political cash. It fueled the revolving door to power, kept the donkey greased between campaigns, and fed the illusion of the party of the poor, money available for Foul’s friends and benefactors.

To Thorpe he was just a high-class fixer and bagman. But for the moment, none of that mattered. Fowler was now the gatekeeper, and there was no way to get around him. He was hardwired into the White House as the president’s chief of staff. He had Thorpe on a string like a yo-yo coming and going from meetings, railing at the bureau, and demanding to know why they couldn’t find the two NASA scientists. Now one of them was dead, and Thorpe had questions of his own.

He had requested this morning’s audience and thought they would be meeting alone. Instead Fowler had invited Henry Janda, a four-star army general and director of the National Security Agency. NSA was the government’s master code breaker. It was their job to gather signals intelligence, to listen in and read the communications of others, and to make sure they weren’t doing the same to us.

“Have a seat. I don’t have much time. I apologize for the hour, but it was the only time I could build you into my schedule.”

It was six o’clock in the morning. Much of the West Wing was still dark.

“I appreciate your seeing me on short notice,” said Thorpe.

Fowler looked up at Thorpe from behind his big desk. “You know General Janda.”

“Henry.”

“Zeb.”

The two men exchanged tight smiles. The fact that the FBI was out of the information loop on critical details involving Project Thor had strained the relationship between the two agencies.

“You called the meeting. I assume you have something for us.” Fowler leaned forward in his chair and put his beady eyes on Thorpe.

“We have a lead. We’re checking it out. We’ll know more in a few hours.”

“You found Leffort?”

“Not yet,” said Thorpe. “But we may be getting closer.”

“Where is he?”

“If the information pans out, he may be in Mexico,” said Thorpe.

Fowler leaned back in his chair and shot a glance at General Janda. “What the hell’s he doing there?”

Janda shook his head.

“How good is this information?” said Fowler.

“We think it’s solid. It would help if we knew more,” said Thorpe.

“Where in Mexico?” Fowler ignored the appeal for information.

“That’s what we’re working on,” said Thorpe. “In the meantime, it might help a great deal if we knew who the other man was, the one who’s dead. Raji Fareed?”

The darting look in Fowler’s eyes as he glanced at Janda told Thorpe what he needed to know. This was one of the items they weren’t talking about.

“He worked for NASA,” said Fowler.

“It looks as if he was also working for somebody else,” said Thorpe.

“What do you mean?” Janda couldn’t resist.

“It seems that he was keeping notes,” said Thorpe.

“What did you find?” Fowler nearly came across the desk.

“We didn’t find anything. Not yet. But someone else did.”

“Who?”

“We intercepted some communications.” Thorpe looked at Janda as if to drive home the point; mess on our turf and we’ll crap on yours. “According to the information, your man Fareed was equipped with some fairly sophisticated computer media, a concealed micro flash drive in a pair of glasses. Not something you could whip up yourself. From what we’re told, this device would require the expertise of a pretty sophisticated spy shop, and not the kind you find in your local mall. It works remotely and has enough storage capacity to hold most of the secrets of the Western world, and then some.”

“Do you know what’s on it?” said Fowler.

“What was characterized as machine language by the person who found it. Computer software, as well as some notes written in plain English by Fareed indicating very clearly that he was working with someone else, somebody for whom he was writing these notes.”