The Garden of Betrayal

15

Amy popped in on me just before lunch. She had a plate in one hand and a steaming mug in the other.

“You got a minute?”

It had been a crazy couple of hours. The Russians and the French had staged a mind-blowing press conference about half an hour after I got the heads-up from Narimanov, replete with slick exhibits detailing the forensic evidence that had prompted them to act and capped by stark video footage of their combined forces carrying out a successful Apocalypse Now -style daylight assault on the Ukrainian paramilitary camp. It had been a heck of an impressive show, and both foreign ministers managed to sneak in backhanders suggesting that the United States could learn a thing or two about dealing with terrorism without laying entire countries to waste. The Ukrainians were screaming that they’d been set up and threatening to raise the issue of their violated sovereignty at the United Nations, but nobody was paying them much mind-even their former Soviet bloc allies were keeping quiet. The United States had been reduced to having a junior State Department spokesperson affirm that America supported responsible efforts to combat terrorism globally. Game, set, and match to the bear and the poodle. The markets reacted as I’d anticipated, and my in-box was stuffed with congratulatory messages from clients.

“Sure,” I said, glancing at my computer screen for the hundredth time. The red progress icon on the depletion model was still flashing at the same infuriatingly leisurely pace. “Come on in.”

“I have more toast,” she said, setting the plate down on my desk. “You ready for some coffee now?”

The question made me realize how tired I was.

“Please,” I said, stifling a yawn. I washed a bite of toast down with a sip from the mug. My stomach wasn’t any happier, but I needed the caffeine. “Any word from Alex?”

“None. He didn’t answer Lynn’s knock. She’s worried.”

“She tell Walter?”

“She spoke to Susan. Susan promised to talk to Walter.”

Susan was Walter’s assistant.

“I’ll stop by on my way home,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Anything else?”

“Rashid called earlier to set up a meeting between you and someone named Mariano Gallegos. He said not to interrupt you.”

“Good. When and where?”

“Tomorrow morning, nine a.m., at the Turtle Bay Diner on the corner of Forty-sixth and Second. I’m assuming you’ll walk over?”

“Right. Do me a favor and let Reggie know also.” She looked at me curiously, but I wasn’t inclined to explain. “And one more thing.” I scribbled a quick explanatory note and then took the iPod and the cable Kate had purchased from my desk. “Seal these in a Bubble Wrap envelope and have an in-house messenger run them over to Rashid, please.”

“Will do. Also, you got a bunch more inquiries from prospective clients, and about a million calls from reporters.”

Talk of prospective clients reminded me of Narimanov’s offer to buy out my business and employ me exclusively. I didn’t know him well enough to jump to any decision, but it was an intriguing opportunity. The money he’d mentioned would support a major upgrade in our lifestyle. And I could probably work for him from anywhere. New York, London-maybe even San Francisco. I wondered again how serious Claire was about moving, and whether her plans included me.

“Fill out background reports on the potential new clients, please, and e-mail me a list of the reporters.” I needed to get back to the ones I was friendly with, even if I didn’t intend to tell them anything.

“Okay. Also, I spoke to Claire. She ordered a lasagna from Butterfield, and she’d like you to stop and pick it up on your way to the Christmas concert at Sloan-Kettering tomorrow night. You want me to book a car?”

“What time does it start?”

“Potluck dinner at six o’clock and concert at seven o’clock.” She waited for my answer. “Mark?”

My eyes had drifted back to my computer monitor. The progress icon for the depletion model had stopped flashing and turned green.

“Sorry. What?”

“I asked if you wanted me to book a car.”

“That’d be great,” I said, reaching for my keyboard. “Thanks.”

I was working at the big table in the main conference room a few hours later when I heard someone enter. Lifting my head wearily, I saw Walter. I’d had another five or six cups of coffee in an effort to stay alert-my shirt was soaked with sweat, and my nerves were jangling. I was in a bad mood, in part because the results I was examining were so shocking, and in part because I couldn’t figure out whether or not to believe them. If the data were false, someone had gone to a heck of a lot of trouble to make them look real, and to use me in some way I hadn’t completely figured out yet. I wondered if Walter knew who that someone was. He was the only person I could think of who might have been able to persuade Alex to lie to me.

“Quite the display,” he said, looking at the array of documents I’d taped to the long glass wall.

“I needed some space to spread out. You here to talk more about Alex?”

“To make clear that you’re to keep me posted on any conversation you have with him regarding his personal issues.” He did a slow tour of the wall, coming to a halt in front of a map occupying the central position. “Saudi Arabia?”

“Message received,” I said. “Thanks for stopping by.”

He touched one of the brightly colored 3-D representations of Saudi oil fields surrounding the map.

“And this is what?”

“Work.”

“Hmm…” He bent closer, examining the legend on the lower-left corner of the colored printout. “Yellow is oil, blue is water, and green is sedimentary rock. Geological studies?”

I crossed my arms and stared at him. He moved left, peering at a spreadsheet.

“‘Net yield by month in hundreds of thousands of barrels,’” he read. “I thought the Saudis didn’t make public their production data?”

“They don’t.”

He turned from the glass wall to scrutinize me.

“More manna from Narimanov?”

There were two possibilities. Either he knew I’d received the Saudi information from Theresa, and was trying to play me for a fool, or he didn’t. If he did, nothing I told him would be news. If he didn’t, it was marginally more likely that Alex had been straight with me. I was tired of guessing at everything. I decided to find out which.

“No,” I said. “Another source.”

He whistled softly.

“You’re kind of on a hot streak, aren’t you?”

“Maybe. There are complications.”

“Such as?” he asked, settling himself in an empty seat.

I got up to close the door and then sat down opposite him. It took me about five minutes to explain how I’d come by the data, referring to Alex as “my friend” and Theresa as “the expert.” His face was a mask.

“The thing that’s making me most uncomfortable is that Simpson’s entire argument yesterday was predicated on assumptions about the very data that just fell into my lap. It seems like too much of a coincidence. I’m betting that there’s something going on behind the scenes.”

“Let me guess,” Walter said, waving a hand at the documents taped to the wall. “The work you’ve done makes the senator seem prescient.”

“A proper analysis would take weeks. But the short answer to your question is yes. My quick-and-dirty read is that the Saudis are likely to begin experiencing serious production declines in about five years. There’s no way the Western economies can retool that quickly, which pretty much guarantees massive dislocation unless the United States adopts Simpson’s plan or something similar.”

I paused for a reaction, but Walter kept quiet. I wasn’t sure what to think. He rarely showed emotion, so it was no surprise that he was taking the news calmly. I had to push harder to get him to show his hand. If he’d arranged for me to receive the data, he’d want me to believe it.

“My best guess is that the same source who gave me this information also fed it to Simpson, and-if so-that Simpson took steps to check it out. Simpson is on the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. I’d love to know what the CIA or the NSA had to say.”

I let the observation hang, waiting for Walter to volunteer a connection. He was plugged in, but not plugged in enough to do fact-checking with our intelligence agencies. If he suggested he’d look into it and then came back the next day to give me the high sign, I’d know something suspicious was going on. Walter pondered for a moment and then shook his head decisively.

“You’ve got this backward.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it. That story you told me about how ‘the expert’ got hold of the data and decided to pass it along doesn’t smell right, and you know it. That’s why you’re so suspicious, and why you’re hell-bent on trying to confirm the information from other sources.”

I nodded tentatively, wondering if this was some kind of double fake.

“So, what’s your hypothesis?”

“Simple. This is the kind of data that originates in the intelligence community. Isn’t it a lot more likely that the CIA or the NSA obtained the information in the first place, realized the potential ramifications, and then posted the Select Committee? And that Senator Simpson, who’s running for president, saw an opportunity to pre-position himself as the candidate with the visionary policy?”

“But that would mean-”

“That Simpson leaked the data himself. Exactly. Or, more likely, his pet weasel White. Because otherwise the voters wouldn’t know the senator was such a visionary, would they? And,” he continued, holding up a finger to forestall any interruption, “having decided to leak it, who better to give the information to than someone close to me? That way he’s really killed two birds with one stone. He shows up on Tuesday and hand-sells his energy security scheme to me and my associates, and you waltz in on Wednesday and tell me that he’s right to be concerned. Simpson gets the data into the public domain and locks up big-money support at the same time.”

It was a neat hypothesis, but there was a piece that didn’t track.

“You’re forgetting that the expert was introduced to me by a friend. It’s a big stretch to think Simpson was able to find a pliable expert who happened to know a friend of mine.”

Walter gave me a pitying look.

“Occam’s razor,” he said.

Occam’s razor: Any explanation of a phenomenon should make as few assumptions as possible. I thought about it for a few seconds and felt sick.

“Simpson didn’t find an expert who knew a friend of mine. He found a friend of mine who was willing to lie about knowing an expert.”

“Simpson figured you’d be suspicious. An introduction from a friend gave the expert credibility.”

Between the fatigue and confusion, I felt as though my head were going to explode. Walter’s argument made sense, but the very fact of his putting it forth made it less likely that he was the one who’d asked Alex to lie about knowing Theresa. Which meant that White or Simpson had somehow gotten to Alex? How? In exchange for what? Walter read the emotion on my face and grinned.

“You know the old saying,” he said. “If you want a friend on Wall Street, buy a dog.”

I wasn’t able to muster a smile.

“Well,” he said, getting to his feet. “I think we both know what to do next. I’ll talk to other members of the Senate Select Committee and see what I can learn. Even if we’re right that Simpson leaked the data, it doesn’t necessarily follow that it’s true. It would be an elegant little political trick to release deliberate disinformation, just the sort of thing White might cook up. Any mention of imminent energy shortages in the press would be enough to scare the bejesus out of most Americans, no matter who subsequently denied it. And that alone would work mightily to Simpson’s benefit. You talk to your ‘friend’ and see if you can get him to come clean. Let me know if you need any assistance.”

“What kind of assistance?” I asked dully.

“Fred and Frank. They’re pretty good at finding hidden connections.”

Frick and Frack. They’d hinted to me in the past that they were available for work in the gray zone, trawling vulnerable computer systems for confidential information. Even if I thought they’d keep Alex’s identity secret from Walter, I wasn’t ready to sic them on him.

“I’ll be okay on my own for now.”

“Fine…”

There was a tap on the door. Walter opened it. Amy was standing outside.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but Susan’s looking for you. She needs to speak with you right away.”

He turned his head toward me.

“Come see me tomorrow mid-morning and we’ll compare notes. I’ll have talked to some people by then.”

I nodded, and he left.

“And Reggie wants you to call him on his cell,” Amy continued, addressing herself to me. “He said it was important.”

“Thanks.”

She closed the door as I dialed Reggie’s number.

“Mark?” he said, answering on the first ring. “Where are you?”

“At the office.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes,” I said. “Why?”

“I hate to have to tell you this, but Alex Coleman is dead.”