Capitol Reflections (40 page)
“What about Pedregal?” asked Mark.
Peter turned the laptop around, hit a few keys, and displayed a map of Panama. “Not sure what to make of this,” he said, “but Pedregal is on the west coast of Panama, on the Golfo de Chiriqui. I would expect most coffee to be loaded on the Caribbean side for shipment to the United States since the crops are pretty heavy in countries like Colombia, Venezuela, and Brazil. If this Hawaiian coffee is grown for any company other than Pequod’s, it should logically pass through the Canal.”
Mark went over to his own laptop and began accessing the
Wall Street Journal
database again.
Wall Street Journal
database again.
“Dr. Karn, you said this had something to do with Senator Broome,” said Peter.
“I’m not sure what to make of all this, but I do know that the island of Lanai has been owned by the Broome family for decades. I’ve kept my eye on Henry Broome over the years for several reasons.”
“Which are?” asked Gwen.
“For one,” began Karn, “Henry—”
“Look at this,” interrupted Mark. “Transpacific Coffee is registered to Anne Davidson Broome. She’s listed as the president of the company.”
“That’s Senator Broome’s wife,” Karn said. “She’s the daughter of a former oil tycoon. As far as I know, she had nothing to do with Lanai until she met her husband.”
“All the same,” said Jan, “Broome himself may have no interest in coffee. His wife may just be a savvy businesswoman.”
“Possibly,” said Karn. “The plantations on Lanai formerly grew only sugarcane and pineapples. But Broome must be aware of his wife’s activities. Henry has always made it his business to know the business of others. I doubt much happens on Lanai that he doesn’t know.”
“You were about to say something else, Dr. Karn,” said Gwen. “Something about Henry Broome.”
“Yes,” said Karn. “I saw Henry do some rather disgraceful things to people at Princeton. Some might dismiss them as college pranks. I never did, though. In addition, Henry’s roommate was killed by a truck in the fall of 1977.”
“Can the death be linked to the senator?” asked Mark aggressively.
“Not that I know of, but I won’t put anything past Henry Broome. When he wants something, he gets it by any means possible.”
Peter raised his hand. “What does any of this have to do with coffee?”
Karn shrugged his shoulders. “I think all we can say at this point is that Roberta Chang thought these bills of lading were very important. The rest might be meaningful or entirely incidental.”
“Let’s not forget why we’re all here, folks,” suggested Gwen. “There’s a serious health hazard in America, and we need to find the cause. Right now, we’re talking coffee, shipping receipts, and events at Princeton almost thirty years ago. I think we’re losing our focus.”
“Maybe not,” said Mark, looking up from his laptop. “My column just received an e-mail that said LOOK AT TRANSPAC FILES. The e-mail address is [email protected]. I sent a reply asking why I should do this, and a mailer-daemon came back saying that the e-mail was undeliverable. I think Peter and I need to go down to Panama and see what’s going on in Pedregal. I’d like to see the files and find out beyond any doubt if there’s a connection between Hawaiian coffee and Pequod’s. If Henry Broome is indeed involved, it might be the government connection to the seizures we’ve been looking for.”
Gwen frowned, picked up Mark’s cell phone, and punched in a number on the keypad.
“I concur,” said Peter. “There’s nothing more I can do up here to access Transpac files by computer. They know I’ve been snooping, and the only way I might be able to get into their system is on-site.”
A few moments later, Gwen addressed her colleagues, who were brainstorming as to how the assembled facts might add up. “I just spoke with John Van Rankin, a friend at Quantico. His team analyzed the Pequod’s bean Mark got in Seattle. The result? That bean is no different from any other. Regardless of the source of the coffee, it cannot have caused any seizure episodes.”
There was visible disappointment in the room, especially on the face of Mark Stern. After several moments of silence, the journalist spoke up. “As you yourself said, Gwen, coffee may not be the agent responsible, but there’s some connection between Pequod’s markets and the seizures. On top of that, we have the info that Roberta Chang passed to Dr. Karn, though we don’t know why she sent it. And that information just may relate to Pequod’s.”
“Actually,” said Karn, “I might know of a reason.”
Everyone turned to stare at the doctor.
“I did a little poking around myself after Roberta contacted me since I had heard Henry comment on TV on how sad he was at the recent death of Chang’s mother. It turns out that she died after a seizure episode.”
Gwen threw her hands up as if in defeat. “Bon voyage, gentlemen,” she said to Mark and Peter. “Pack your mosquito netting. I don’t know if Panama can be expected to have a Pedregal Hilton.”
“While we’re gone, I think someone needs to talk with the parents of the senator’s roommate who died,” suggested Mark, “assuming they’re still alive and can be found.”
“His name was Jamie Robinson,” said Karn. “His parents still live in Scranton, Pennsylvania. I’ll be glad to drop in on them since I was at Princeton while Jamie was enrolled there and knew the boy’s advisor.”
“I’m going with you,” volunteered Gwen.
“Guess I’ll sit around and do my nails,” Jan joked.
“Actually,” said Mark, “I was thinking that you and a friend of mine, Rick Mecklenberg, should pair up and handle anything that might surface. At this point, we don’t know what we might run into.”
The air hung heavy with that notion.
53
Peter Tippett and Mark Stern stood next to a shack at the end of an airstrip cutting through pines in the Virginia countryside, watching Peter Tippett & Associates’ Gulfstream III appear from the shimmering heat like a mirage. It descended quickly, touching down and rolling to a stop twenty yards away from the two men.
“The company usually keeps the jet parked at Manassas Jet Center,” explained Peter, “but we occasionally have it flown here and then switch pilots before proceeding to our final destination.”
“But you’re just a security consultant, for crying out loud,” said Mark.
“True, but our clients don’t really want their competition, some of whom are foreign governments, to know that they’re using our services. I can promise you that those who hire us are under a great deal of scrutiny. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t need us in the first place. It behooves us to play matters close to the vest.”
A pilot, a young man in his early thirties, climbed down the short stairs that unfolded from the fuselage.
“It’s all yours, Mr. Tippett.”
“Thanks, Rick. There’s a pick-up parked next to the radio tower behind the control shack so you can get back to D.C.”
Mark turned around and saw a building that looked like a utility shed. “You mean that someone in there controls all takeoffs and landings?”
Peter smiled. “A single controller is all I need to help me know what’s in the airspace within fifty miles of this location.”
“You’re going to fly us to Panama?”
“You want a qualified pilot, don’t you?”
Mark laughed. “You’ve been flying a long time?”
“I was a pilot in the Royal Air Force, my good fellow. Flew Harrier Jump Jets with Prince Andrew in the Falklands, as a matter of fact.”
“Enough said. Let’s go.”
Mark and Peter climbed aboard. Moments later, they were airborne, the Gulfstream banking gently as it climbed and headed south through wispy clouds.
Peter sat at the controls of the Gulfstream with Mark strapped into the copilot’s seat. There had been little turbulence thus far, and they now cruised at twenty-five thousand feet over the Gulf of Mexico. Peter threw a few switches and banked sharply to the left, causing Mark to look at his pilot.
“What was that about?”
“Hopefully, nothing.”
“We’re climbing again?”
Peter didn’t answer as he banked sharply to the right.
“Hey,” said Mark. “I don’t usually get airsick, but you left my stomach a few miles back there.”
“Sorry. It appears we have a shadow.”
“We’re being followed?”
“That’s the most logical conclusion. Could be a refection off the clouds below—even a flock of birds—but my guess is that we’re being tailed by a small private plane.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Remember that this plane is owned by my company. It has a few gadgets the FAA doesn’t even know about.”
“Such as?”
“This certainly isn’t a stealth aircraft, but I can jam the radar of military jets if necessary.” Grinning, Peter looked at Mark. “I don’t think we’re being pursued by a military jet, so he doesn’t have fire system radar. The pilot is almost certainly following our civilian transponder, which I can turn off at any time I choose and switch to a military channel. And I most definitely choose.”
Peter turned a dial in the center of the cockpit and descended into a thick cloudbank below. Once hidden, he changed course, flying due east for five miles before turning south again.
“So?”
“No more shadow,” said Peter.
“Where are we going to set this baby down?” asked Mark.
“Obviously someone has an idea where we’re going despite diverting the Gulfstream to your private strip before takeoff.”
“We don’t know that for sure. Regardless, there’s a deserted strip in Panama. A Jeep will meet us, and we’ll drive a hundred miles or so to reach Pedregal.”
“That’s just great.”
“I thought reporters had a spirit of adventure.”
“The New York subways give me all the adrenaline I need.”
“We’ll also be wearing what’s in the carry-on back in the cabin.”
Mark got up, made his way past two rows of light brown leather seats, and saw a black canvas bag sitting next to a row of very sophisticated electronic equipment. Unzipping the bag, he saw dark green camouflage outfits, berets, and aviator sunglasses.
“You gotta be kidding,” Mark said when he returned to the cockpit. “We’re going to impersonate Panamanian soldiers?”
“We can’t very well walk into Transpac and announce ourselves as Mark Stern and Peter Tippett, now can we?”
“I try to help out an old girlfriend,” Mark muttered, “and now I’m staring at a firing squad in Central America if we’re caught.”
“It’s not so bad down there,” said Peter. “They actually treat condemned prisoners very well in Panama.”
“I don’t even want to know how you know that,” said Mark.
The plane emerged from the clouds, the blue waters of the Gulf far below.
PART V
54
“May I help you?” asked Alice Robinson timidly, standing behind a screen door in the center of her front porch.
“My name is Edward Karn, and this is my friend, Gwen Maulder. I was an acquaintance of Henry Broome’s back at Princeton.”
Alice Robinson smiled broadly through the dark mesh screen. “You knew Henry? What a lovely man. Please come in.”
Gwen was nervous as she entered the humble living room of the Robinson home. While Karn may have known Henry during their university days, she was worried that the Robinsons might know of Henry’s antagonism to the former FDA nominee. Alice was congenial, at least for now, but her husband might be another matter.
Alice led Gwen and Karn to a plastic-covered sofa. As they sat, a man descended a short, steep stairway.
“This man knew Jamie’s roommate,” Alice told her husband.
Tom Robinson stared at his unexpected visitors for several seconds before smiling weakly. The Robinsons appeared to be in their mid-seventies, and Tom was slightly hunched over. “Any friend of Henry Broome is a friend of ours,” he proclaimed. “That man has sent us Christmas gifts every single year since Jamie’s death. He even sends Alice flowers on her birthday. Salt of the earth.”
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