Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

“Maybe the government doesn’'t know he’s doing that!” Caitlin argues.

“The same government you want to pillory for its handling of Katrina and Iraq?” I shake my head. “Either we’ve stumbled into something really rotten, or something so serious that we can’t even grasp its significance. Either way, we have to assume that if Tim’s death didn't matter to whoever’s in charge of this mess, none of ours would either.”

Caitlin looks as if she’s winding up again, but before she speaks, Dad says, “I think Penn and I have to make this decision alone. Caitlin, you and Carl will have no part in it.”

“But we

know

about it. We

are

a part of it, whether we want to be or not.”

As passionate as she is about this, some part of me wonders about Caitlin’s true motive.

“If we decide to go ahead,” Dad says, “you do whatever you feel you must.”

The room is so quiet that my cell phone vibrating in my pocket stops the conversation. It’s late enough that I feel I need to check it. The screen shows one new text message. The area code is 202—Washington, D.C.—but I don'’t recognize the number. The message reads: GO OUTSIDE AND TURN ON YOUR SATELLITE PHONE.

“What is it?” Kelly asks, seeing the color drain from my face.

I toss the phone to him. He reads the screen, then jumps to his feet and grabs his gear bag.

“What is it?” Dad asks worriedly. “Is it Annie or Peggy?”

“I don'’t know what it is,” Kelly says, “but it ain’t good.” He looks at me. “Who have you given the sat number to?”

“Nobody.”

“Shit. Either it’s someone from Blackhawk, or they gave the number to somebody in D.C.”

“What do I do?” I ask. “How do they know I'm inside?”

“They tried to call the satphone and you didn't answer. Take it easy. They can’t see us or anything. But you'’ve got to take the call. I'’ll go out with you.”

We brush aside the curtain and go out the patio doors. Caitlin follows. As soon as Kelly sets up the link to the satellite, the phone starts to buzz.

“This is Penn Cage.”

“Hello, Mr. Cage,” says a voice with a vestigial Southern accent. “My name is William Hull. I'm an attorney with the Justice Department.”

“They’re a pretty big employer. Could you be more specific?”

“I'm special counsel to the Department of Homeland Security.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Very boring, I assure you. Being an assistant DA in Houston is twice as exciting.”

“What are you calling about, Mr. Hull? And how did you get this number?”

“We have some mutual friends. They were kind enough to give me your private number. As for the purpose of my call, it’s about Jonathan Sands.”

“What about him?”

“Well, this is a delicate matter. We—”

“Mr. Hull, when you say

delicate,

I hear

dirty.

”

Hull pauses, his rhythm disturbed. “Jonathan Sands has an important relationship to the federal government at this time.”

I look at Kelly and shake my head in disbelief. “You mean he’s an informant.”

“I didn't say that.”

“Well, what did you say? Is Sands employed by the federal government?”

“Of course not.”

“Is he a close personal friend of someone in the administration?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then he’s an informant.”

Hull sighs like a man unaccustomed to frustration. “Mr. Cage, there’s an investigation pending—a very large and complex investigation—that began almost three years ago. It involves both the Department of Homeland Security and the Justice Department, through the Special Task Force on Money Laundering. The target is a Chinese national named Edward Po.”

“I know who Po is.”

“Do you? In any case, Mr. Sands is important to the aforementioned investigation. That'’s all I am authorized to tell you, and given my position, it should be enough.”

“Well, it’s not. I’'ve played this game before, Mr. Hull. I’'ve dealt with some pretty unsavory characters in order to nail worse ones, so I know the rules. But I also know that at some point you have to draw a line. Being a confidential informant isn’t a free pass to commit murder.”

Hull takes his time with this. At length he says, “You were an assistant district attorney in Houston, Texas. You were dealing with state crimes. I'm talking about the national security of the United States.”

“That rubric has been stretched to cover a lot of sins lately. The last time I checked, Mississippi was part of the United States. And her citizens count just as much as those in Georgetown or Chevy Chase. What happens to Sands after your investigation of Po is concluded? Does he walk?”

There’s another hitch in Hull’s rhythm. “That hasn’'t been determined yet.”

“Then tell me this: What chance do you really have of nailing a Chinese billionaire in U.S. federal court?”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“You’re telling me somebody up in the Justice Department has finally grown some balls?”

“It happens. Mr. Cage, I need your personal assurance that you won'’t interfere any further, as of this moment.”

“You’re not going to get that. Not tonight, anyway.”

“I'm sure I don'’t need to remind you that you have no law enforcement authority. You’re no longer a prosecutor.”

“The local DA reminds me of that all the time. I am, however, an American citizen.”

“Meaning?”

“Hull, if you'’ve forgotten what that means, we might as well hang up now.”

“I sense a certain naďveté in your attitude, Mr. Cage. Maybe you'’ve been out of the city too long.”

At last my outrage boils over. “Do you have any idea what kind of criminal acts Jonathan Sands is committing down here?”

“Knowing the man’s résumé, I can guess.”

“My sister was nearly killed in England two hours ago by a hit-and-run driver.”

“You can prove that was linked to Jonathan Sands?”

“It wasn'’t coincidence. But even that pales next to kidnapping and murder.”

“Are you referring to the death of Timothy Jessup?”

“And possibly others.”

“Mr. Cage, try to set aside your personal concerns and listen to me for one minute. A little over a month ago, more than two thousand people drowned in New Orleans. If the numbers I'm seeing are any indicator, we’re likely to find another thousand corpses or so, and many will remain unaccounted for. So, as for a few dogs being fought in some backwater Louisiana parish, we don'’t have time for it. As for prostitution and gambling, the authorities in Babylon had the same problem. It’s not going away.”

“I'm not talking about dogfighting and prostitution.”

“I heard you. Murder is serious business—if murder is in fact what you have down there. But Edward Po is smuggling illegal aliens into this country by the hundred, some of whom will work in industrial jobs, others as prostitutes or drug couriers. More importantly, through massive and complex money-laundering schemes, Po is meddling with the currency of the United States. The number of people who’ve been injured because of his criminal enterprises probably can’t be overestimated. So while I'm sure Mr. Jessup was a close friend of yours, you need to take a step back and get some perspective. The target here is Po, not some Irish punk who likes to fight dogs and run whores in his spare time. I talked to your old boss Joe Cantor. He told me that you generally have a good sense of priorities, but that you’re an idealist. In these times, idealism is a luxury we can’t afford. Am I getting through to you?”

“You’ve made your position clear.”

“That'’s not what I'm asking.”

“That'’s the only answer you’re going to get. I'’ll consider what you'’ve said, but you should be aware of this. My family has been threatened by your informant. I’'ve had to send my mother and daughter into hiding. Because of that, I’'ve taken certain steps. If I or my father die or disappear for any length of time, every detail of these matters will be made public in the most sensational way I could contrive.”