Russell Andrews - Midas

“This is Martha Peck,” the voice on the other end said, although Justin hadn’t needed to hear her name to recognize that passive-aggressive tone that had driven him so crazy when they’d met in her office. “From the Federal Aviation Administration. I. . I know what happened to you. . I mean, that you’ve been. . away. . but I heard that you’ve been. . that you’re back home. I hope you’re okay.”

“I’m just great,” he said. “It was just like a vacation.”

“It’s important that we talk,” Martha Peck told him. “Mr. Westwood. . Chief Westwood. .”

“Try Jay. It’s easier, Ms. Peck.”

“Then please call me Martha.”

“Deal,” he said. “Is this just a social call, Martha? Just checking up on my health and well-being?”

He let her silence go on until she decided to end it herself. He had a feeling she wouldn’t need much prompting and he was right. “I. . I believe I may have been partially responsible for what happened to you, Mr. . Jay.”

“Responsible for what exactly?”

“For where you’ve been. For what’s been done to you. I think it may be my fault.”

Justin ran his free hand through his beard. He decided to cut it off the moment he was off the phone. It suddenly made him feel filthy and degraded. “Why do you think that, Martha?”

“Because I called someone. After you left my office. I couldn’t believe what you were telling me, and yet some part of me knew that what you were saying was accurate.” She hesitated. Again, Justin waited out her silence. “I removed Martin Heffernan’s file from the computer,” she said.

“But not on your own,” he said.

“No. I did it because someone asked me to.”

“Who?”

“You have to understand the mood in government these days, Jay. After 9/11, particularly after the findings from the 9/11 Commission, and the recent bombings. . we all felt so put-upon. My agency took a big hit. And there was so much criticism that a lot of it happened because there was no communication between government organizations. .”

“I understand,” he said.

“So when I got a call, it seemed. . it seemed important to cooperate. And once I did, I couldn’t believe I might have done the wrong thing.”

“Who called you?” he asked softly.

“It doesn’t make sense to me,” Martha Peck said. “It’s an old friend. We met at a White House function and we’ve been friendly for years. When she called, she said it was a very delicate matter, that it had to do with a terrorist alert.”

“She?”

“She said she was involved because the threat involved protected land that fell under her domain. She was working with the FBI and with Justice, she said.”

“Stephanie Ingles. From the EPA. That’s who called you.”

“Yes,” Martha Peck said. “She called me that day and she called me after Heffernan was killed to say that it had nothing to do with me or the file. She said that Heffernan had done nothing wrong but that I was never to tell anyone what I’d done, that it was a matter of national security. Do you know what kind of panic it causes when anyone says the words ‘national security’ these days?”

“Yes, I do,” Justin said.

“Stephanie called me again yesterday. To tell me that the FBI knew you had talked to me and to tell me you were being released. She said that I was not to speak to you under any circumstances. It wasn’t just a friendly piece of advice or even a warning. It was a threat. Not an overt one, but I know a threat when I hear it.”

“So why are you calling me, Martha?”

“Because I don’t like to be threatened. And because she was lying to me, Jay. She was lying to me from the very beginning. And you were telling me the truth, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I was,” Justin said.

“Is this. . is this helpful to you?”

“Extremely helpful, Martha.”

“Well then, I’m glad I called.”

“Me too,” Justin said. “I’m very glad you called.”

And I take back everything I’ve always thought about bureaucrats , he thought. Every last damn thing.

He didn’t call his parents. Instead he dug out a yellow legal pad and a pen. They’d taken his computer and his files, but he could still write.

It struck him that he should be scribbling in the dirt, this felt almost too clean. But it all came so easily this way. He didn’t need a computer for this. Everything was in his head. He wondered if it would be there forever. He hoped not. But he was glad it was there now.

The names and organizations flitted across his memory as clearly as if they were on a movie screen. He was able to conjure up every list, every variation. He remembered his near breakthrough at Gitmo. And where he’d come up short.

Stephanie Ingles.

She was now in the mix, but what the hell was her role? What was her connection to the others and to what he suspected was going on? He’d overlooked that connection before, but Martha Peck’s phone call made it as clear as could be that there was one. But what could it be?

Slow it down, he thought. Go back to the process. Take a deep breath. And another. You’re just at another plateau. So think this through. Be logical.

The EPA. Start there. That’s where the connection must be. What was their function? To protect land, water, and air. Protect wildlife. Pretty nonthreatening. But what the hell had he been reading about it lately? What had he heard? Something. He’d read a newspaper story. .

His mind was racing. Environmental protection. Land preservation. Yes! That’s what he’d read. He’d discussed it with Roger and his dad. The EPA and President Anderson had declared a huge mass of land in Alaska off-limits to the oil companies. Stephanie Ingles had pushed for the resolution. Dandridge had supported it. A surprise to everyone. Halliburton was livid. EGenco was furious. But how the hell did that fit? It didn’t. It was the opposite of everything else that was beginning to add up. It made no sense.

But it had to. It had to. .

Go slowly, he told himself.

Think clearly. Everything has a reason.

Just get to the next plateau.

It had to fit. .

Millions of acres unavailable for oil drilling.

He began scribbling furiously on the pad.

What was the result of that decision? Environmentalists were thrilled. The permanent preservation of land and wildlife. Possible political gain, a nod to a constituency that wouldn’t normally vote for Dandridge.

What else? The oil companies were up in arms. Less drilling. Less potential for domestic oil. More dependence on overseas oil.

So what? So what? What did it mean?!

Less oil, prices go up. .

Higher prices were bad for the administration. It was harmful to their normal constituents, which meant it was politically damaging. .

But when oil prices rose, someone was making a lot more money.

Bad politically. Very good personally.

He remembered Roger Mallone, lecturing him in the living room of his East End house. “SPEs,” he’d said. “A great way to hide a lot of crooked things.”

EGenco. Midas. Special Purpose Entities.

He jumped up and ran out to the front lawn. His newspapers had never stopped being delivered, and he scrounged through the several dozen papers that were scattered around, found that morning’s New York Times . Justin turned to the business section, found that day’s oil prices.

Sixty-four dollars a barrel. A record high.

Justin swore at the guys who’d stolen his computer-he no longer had access to his computerized address book-then called Rhode Island information, asking for the number for Roger Mallone. A minute later, he had Mallone on the phone.