“Kimberly, I need you to reach Mr. Martin immediately, can you do that for me? He doesn’t need to speak to the police without me there.”
With tears beginning in her eyes, Kimberly entered the numbers for Martin’s office and waited for someone to answer.
“Mr. Martin’s attorney is here, would you please let him know?”
After a moment, she looked up at Drake.
“The policeman said they’re busy right now.”
“Kimberly, I need to get up there. Tell security to show me the way. Now, please.”
The security guard on Drake’s left had been listening, and motioned for Drake to follow him. He held his door open and led Drake to the bank of elevators beyond the reception area.
“Mr. Martin shouldn’t have to put up with the crap the police are giving him. We run a tight ship here, it isn’t his fault Mrs. Lewellyn was killed,” the man said. Beefy, in his sixties, the man looked like a former cop.
“You know any of these guys he’s talking to?”
“Only the detective, and just by reputation. Name’s Carson, and he’s a mean son of a bitch. He had Kimberly crying because she wouldn’t let him up to see Mr. Martin without calling ahead. Kimberly was just doing her job.”
Mean son of a bitch was an understatement where Detective Steve Carson was concerned. Drake knew him well. Carson had been prepared to perjure himself in one of Drake’s drug cases. The felon had agreed to accept a favorable plea deal in the middle of the trial, which prevented the perjury from occurring. When Drake was forced to explain the plea arrangement, he’d refused to cover for Carson. Carson was demoted and later terminated from the Portland P.D. Rehired in Hillsboro, Carson had apparently worked his way back to detective rank.
When the elevator door opened on the fourth floor, Detective Carson was waiting for Drake.
“I heard they kicked you out of the D.A.’s office. You doing criminal defense work now?”
Carson had changed. He’d been a tough cop, crew-cut hair, five nine with a barrel chest and thick shoulders. He was still five nine but now just thick all over, with a shaved head and droopy mustache. The man looked like a heavy G. Gordon Liddy, President Nixon’s break-in “plumber,” famous for putting cigarettes out in the palm of his hand. Drake doubted Carson had ever done anything as painful, though he probably wanted people to think he had.
“Where’s Martin? I want to see him, now.”
“No problem, counselor, no problem. We’re just doing our crime scene investigation and asking questions. Why does Mr. Martin think he needs an attorney? They’re the victims here, right, or do innocent people need attorneys now?”
“You’d know that better than me, right? Take me to my client.”
Drake saw a flicker of understanding that quickly flamed to anger before Carson turned and walked down the hall.
The hallway to the right took them past two offices before they reached Richard Martin’s executive suite. Two plain-clothes detectives stood in the outer office where Martin’s secretary had worked. In his office, Richard Martin stood beside his desk, talking with a young detective taking notes. When she saw Drake enter with Detective Carson, she quickly asked another question before Drake reached them.
“Richard,” Drake called ahead, “before you continue, may I speak with you for a moment?” He motioned to Martin to follow, and walked to the back of his office.
“Have they been here long?” Drake asked.
“For an hour or so. They’re asking, ‘Was I having an affair with Janice? Who could have turned off the security system? Did I suspect any of my employees?’ This is a nightmare. This is the stuff you see winding up in the tabloids.”
“Relax, that’s why I’m here. Go tell your people everything’s under control, this is routine, and you’ll brief them before the end of the day. I’ll talk with the police for a while.”
Martin left, and Drake walked up to Detective Carson.
“Steve, I want you to listen carefully. There’s important work going on here, and we’ll cooperate fully with your investigation. You need to minimize the disruption, though. You’re scaring these people.”
“Well, I’m sorry all to hell, Drake. There was a murder here. It’s my job to find the lady’s killer. If that disrupts some new video game this company is working on, then the consumers will just have to suffer a while.”
“As usual, you haven’t done your homework. Martin Research is a defense contractor for the government. The consumers are us, and no, we can’t wait for you to plod your way through this investigation. Now, why don’t you tell me what you need. I’ll make sure you get it, as quickly as possible.”
Detective Carson looked like he wanted to settle old scores with one punch.
“Drake, I don’t like you. I’ll never forget what you did to me. This is my investigation. What I need to know is how this buttoned-up, high-tech place allowed some killer to get in and kill this lady. Was this an inside job? Does someone know something he’s not telling me? If you can help me with that, great. If not, get out of my way or I’ll arrest your ass for obstruction of justice.”
Drake smiled and gently put a finger on the detective’s chest.
“Steve, as much as we both don’t like it, we’re on the same side here. But don’t ever threaten me again. I kept you out of jail once. I won’t do it again. Do your job and remember, I know the rules better than you do. If you need to talk with Richard Martin again, call me.”
With that, Drake left, in search of the CEO, and some answers.
Chapter 7
The United Airlines flight from Las Vegas to Aruba via Charlotte, North Carolina took nearly thirteen hours on the same day Drake was meeting with the police at Martin Research. The man sitting in the rear window seat of first class, however, didn’t mind.
He wore the casual dress of a business traveler, comfortable with the anonymity it provided. Of course, he also had a false passport and altered appearance. Most observers would remember dyed-gray hair, stylish wire- rimmed glasses, and the cane he used when he moved, if they remembered anything at all.
His private jet would have been faster and more comfortable, but it could be tracked. At this stage, he didn’t want anyone to know where he was going or who he was meeting. Especially not the man he was meeting.
David Barak was known as Malik, or the Leader, to his followers. They knew him by no other name. He was traveling to meet the man coordinating the war against the West from the Tri-Border Area of South America. Of the three-quarters of a million residents there, more than twenty-five thousand were Arabs. In that number, a significant number of jihadists and international terrorist organizations were represented.
Western intelligence hadn’t been able to identify all the players in the TBA because it was a wild frontier, for the most part lawless. The various agencies knew the cartel and jihadist organizations were getting along, or at least cooperating with each other in unusual ways. The reason, Barak knew, was that one entity, known as the “Alliance,” coordinated the efforts of the cartels and the worldwide Islamist jihad for their mutual benefit. It also took a healthy profit for doing so, but it was deserved.
Barak took a glass of champagne from the first-class attendant and considered what little he knew about the upcoming meeting. The encrypted message from his sponsors simply directed him to the island of Aruba and a villa on the eastern shore. There, he was to meet a man who would identify himself only as Ryan. He was instructed to brief the man on plans he’d been putting in place for twenty-five years. Actually, longer than that if you counted all the years since he’d decided to become a warrior. That was two days after his eleventh birthday, when his father had been hunted down and assassinated. The Jews had learned of his father’s close relationship with the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, the head of Hitler’s SS Muslim Panzar Division in World War II, and had sent a team of young Israelis to kill him. Barak had vowed his revenge on the Jews.
His father had fled to Egypt after WWII. He lived under the protection of Gamal Abdul Nasser, until the Jews
