Russell Andrews - Midas

The young officer said, “Yes, sir,” and Justin closed the door behind him.

“Make a right turn,” he told the driver. “Go slow, as if you’re just pulling away from the accident so you don’t block traffic. Then go two blocks and make another right.”

The colonel started to talk but Justin tapped him with the gun-not as lightly as he might have, he wanted it to hurt. “Shut up,” he said, and he was almost embarrassed how satisfying it was to speak those words. He then did a quick frisk, took a pistol out of Zanesworth’s shoulder holster.

The driver had now made the second right. Justin told him to go one more block and make a left. They went about ten blocks farther, turning a few more times. Justin saw that no one was following them, so he told the driver to stop and pull over. They were in a business area near a strip mall and a few small stores.

“Colonel,” Justin said, “get down on the floor, facedown, hands interlaced behind your back. Once you’re there, if I see you move, I’ll shoot you.”

Justin opened the car door on his side, stepped outside, and watched Zanesworth settle into his position. Then he tapped the driver on the back of the head with his gun, said, “Okay, Junior, I’m going to open your door. Keep your hands completely visible at all times and get out of the car.”

They managed that maneuver. Justin took a pistol off the driver, made sure he had no other weapons, then he said, “Step behind the car here and get undressed.”

“What?”

“Give me the keys to the car first, then take your clothes off.”

“Why?”

“Here’s the way it works in the real world. Say another word and I’ll beat you senseless. Now get out of your clothes. Fast.”

The officer clamped his mouth shut, kicked off his shoes and removed his shirt and pants.

“Underwear and socks, too,” Justin told him.

The young officer glared but said nothing. And then he was completely naked.

“Okay,” Justin said. “Crouch down behind the car, here on the curb side.”

The young officer followed instructions. Then Justin went around to the street side, opened the door, reached inside the car, and grabbed Zanesworth by the neck. He pulled the colonel roughly out onto the street, then quickly shoved him back into the passenger seat in the front.

Justin strode quickly back to the driver’s side, got in, and started up the engine. “Have a nice day,” he said to the naked officer, and drove away.

Half a block later, Zanesworth said quietly, “There was no need to humiliate the lieutenant like that.”

“Sure there was,” Justin said. “I’m hoping I don’t need you for long, Colonel, I just need one piece of information. And it’s going to take a naked guy with no ID at least fifteen or twenty minutes to get anyone to pay attention to anything he says. Hopefully you’ll be heading home long before then.”

When Zanesworth didn’t respond, Justin said, “Thinking of all kinds of threats to make? Hard to think of any that don’t sound really cliched, isn’t it?”

“You can’t possibly get away with this,” Zanesworth answered.

“See what I mean?”

“You’re as good as dead.”

“Colonel, I’ve been as good as dead for a pretty long time, so that doesn’t exactly get me shaking in my boots.”

“I’m not giving you any information.”

“We’ll see.”

“Son, I don’t know what the hell you’re thinking-”

“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking, Colonel. I’m thinking that you’re an arrogant, egotistical, pompous asshole who’s boxed himself into a corner. You’ve spent so many years giving orders and taking orders that you don’t know your ass from your elbow. I also don’t think you’re all that smart. How am I doing so far?”

Zanesworth didn’t answer. Justin shrugged and went on. “But you’re a military lifer, right? So I do think you’re smart enough to know when it’s time to retreat. And it’s time, Colonel. You picked the wrong side. I don’t think you even knew you were picking a side, that’s how well you were played. Somebody called you about eighteen months ago, said they needed a pilot. That it was business but it was patriotic business. Whoever it was sold you a pretty good case that this was a matter of national security. Must have been someone pretty high up, who could get your attention. You want to hear more?”

“I’m listening,” Zanesworth said.

“Maybe it was someone who Captain Cooke had flown, someone who was comfortable with Cooke. And who Cooke trusted. Shit,” Justin said, “I think I just answered my first question. No wonder you paid attention.”

“I’m not confirming anything,” Zanesworth told him.

“And I’m not done talking.” Justin told him about Hutchinson Cooke now, about the rigged manifold in his plane, about going to talk to Cooke’s wife and how, a day later, they were the targets of the McDonald’s suicide bomber. When he heard about the timing of the bomb, Colonel Eugene Zanesworth’s whole body seemed to collapse into the seat.

“You want me to tell you about the other bombs, Colonel? About how they aren’t what you’re being told they are? How the first one was used to murder Bradford Collins and the second one to kill a nasty little guy who worked for the FAA?”

Zanesworth was white as a ghost. “Martin Heffernan?”

“Is he the one who called to tell you that Cooke was dead?”

Zanesworth was staring straight ahead. Justin could tell he was considering his options.

“I can’t prove it, Colonel, but I’m reasonably sure that Heffernan’s the one who killed your captain.” And over the next silence, “If you’re in on it, I promise you I’ll bring you down. If you were just a dupe, which is what I think, I’ll do my best to leave you out of it. But I need the pieces. Now. It’s a big, dangerous puzzle and I’m missing too many pieces to solve it. So first tell me who arranged for Cooke to go to work for Midas.” Then quietly, “Was it the vice president, Colonel? Was it Phil Dandridge?”

“Yes. Yes it was.”

“And who called you to say that Cooke was dead?”

“Heffernan.”

Justin nodded, instantly pulled out his cell phone and dialed. “Hey,” he said when Gary Jenkins answered the phone at the East End police station. “Your brother in school?”

“Chief?”

“Let’s skip the formalities, okay? Is your brother in school?”

“Well. . sure. . I guess.”

“I want you to get him out of class.”

“Now?”

“Not just now. Five minutes ago. The school’s what, five blocks from the station?”

“I guess.”

“Well I don’t want you to walk. I want you to drive. And I want you to use your siren. Go ninety. Then get him out of class, take him to the station, and tell him I want him to hack into New York phone company records. He’s done it for me before.”

“Sure. Okay. What do you want him to get?”

“I want the records for all calls coming in and out of Martin Heffernan’s apartment on November sixth, seventh, and eighth. I’m particularly interested in any calls he made to Washington, D.C., on those dates. You got it?”

“Yeah, sure. . uh. .”

“Gary, stop talking and get in the fuckin’ car. You got my cell number?”

“Yeah.”

“Well call me as soon as he has the info. If I know Ben he’ll have it in about ten minutes.” He hung up.

Zanesworth was staring at Justin as if he were a madman. “A schoolboy,” he said. “That’s who you’ve got on your side?”

“You’d be surprised,” Justin said, “what the youth of America is capable of.”

It took thirteen minutes for Gary Jenkins to call back.

“Ben did it,” he said. “But he-”