Operation Mockingbird (11 page)

“A campaign led by IMS.”

“You got it. Rumor has it that the President of Syria paid this firm big bucks to try and portray him as a transformative leader instead of the oppressive dictator he is.”

“Okay, I’m impressed.”

“Where are you going with this?” Alex asked after a short pause. “What does this have to do with Bob?”

“I’m not sure,” Matt conceded. “I’m just sifting through the information in his journal.”

“Okay,” she said. “But, Matt, promise me you’ll call me if you need anything else. I’d like to help.”

Hanging up with Alex, Matt tried to figure out how this new information could tie into Bob’s death. It was Matt’s experience that PR firms were zealous advocates for their clients – in many cases, overzealous to the point of annoying, but definitely not murderers.

As Matt was leaving the library, he was assaulted by the aroma of one of Miami’s well-known population segments. The homeless. In light of its warm climate, Miami had always had a large homeless population. That had only increased since the unemployment rate had skyrocketed, the real estate boom several years ago had eaten up all the
affordable housing, and public assistance had been reduced to negligible levels. At night the homeless slept in shelters and encampments scattered throughout downtown. During the day, they wandered the streets of Miami, swathed in every piece of clothing they owned. Unbathed homeless people wrapped in layers of unwashed clothing, baking in the Miami heat was not a winning combination.

During business hours on the weekdays, the homeless regularly frequented the local public libraries, taking advantage of the free admission and air-conditioning. It was difficult for municipalities to balance protecting the rights of the homeless who had no place else to go and the rights of the general population to enjoy public places unmolested. The City of Miami had fought that battle and lost. The homeless were permitted to enjoy the cool indoors and free literature, and the others just had to accept it.

As he walked through the crowd, several people reached out to him asking for spare change. Matt averted his eyes and kept walking. A long-haired man was particularly aggressive and stepped in his path. Matt brushed past him. He glanced around, avoiding any form of eye contact. Yet, the man’s tattered T-shirt caught his eye. “Fuck your fascist concept of beauty,” it screamed. Matt couldn’t resist a small smile as he shifted his gaze back to the ground and continued walking.

The homeless guy kept pace and extended his hand. A universally understood gesture.

“No, sorry,” Matt said without breaking stride. Undeterred, the man followed, that insistent hand still hanging out there.

“I’m in a hurry,” Matt said veering off toward the stairs on the opposite side of the plaza leading down to street level.

From a brief glance the man looked vaguely familiar but many of the homeless had been living on the streets and hanging out at the same locations for several years. Matt was a regular fixture at the library when he was working downtown. He had probably seen this guy before, possibly given him some spare change.

So Matt did the only thing that worked in these situations. He reached into his pocket. Still avoiding the man’s eyes, he proffered everything he dug up – a crumpled dollar bill, several coins and some lint. Much to Matt’s surprise, however, the guy wouldn’t take it. He must be one of the many mentally unstable people that lived on the streets, Matt thought. He gave up, shoved the contents back into his pocket and pushed past.

The man kept pace and tried to place a piece of paper in Matt’s hand. Now Matt was back on familiar territory. A flyer from a local business.

“No, thanks, but here.” Matt again attempted to hand over the contents of his pocket.

“Please, take this. It’s the word of the Lord.” His shadow spoke for the first time.

“I’m not interested,” Matt replied firmly.

He couldn’t imagine what words the Lord would have for him at this point in his life, but they couldn’t be good.

“Matt, take it.” The shadow spoke urgently.

The familiarity shocked Matt. He stopped in his tracks.

“What? How did you . . .” He whirled around to face the stranger.

Matt struggled to make out the features from underneath a baseball cap pulled down low. Unshaven and with long greasy hair, sunburned and his lips parched, the man looked like every other homeless person Matt had sought to avoid. Then, the man lifted his head and looked directly at Matt from underneath the brim of his cap. His blue eyes pierced through Matt before they darted around the courtyard.

“Oh my God,” Matt exclaimed. “What the hell . .”

“Matt, just take this.” The man shoved the piece of paper into Matt’s hand and closed his fingers around it, his eyes still scanning the courtyard.

“But--” Before Matt could get anything else out, the shadow shuffled away and disappeared into the crowd.

Matt looked down at the scrap of paper in his hand. The word of the Lord instructed him to be at Jimbo’s at five o’ clock the next afternoon. The Lord’s messenger also told him to be careful as he was probably being followed.

By the time Matt looked up, Stephen Cross was gone.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

LATE THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Matt once again headed over toward Scotty’s Landing. This time, he didn’t stop at the bar. Instead, he headed for the Grove Harbour Marina adjacent to the restaurant. The Marina had 90 boat slips and 260 dry dock storage spaces. Carlos, the dock master, was an old friend. After exchanging pleasantries and $200, Matt was behind the wheel of a 25-foot, center console open fisherman boat.

Matt pushed off the pier and stepped back behind the wheel. The boat was old, but the twin 250 Yamahas were relatively new and in great condition. Matt nudged the throttle and easily navigated the boat out of the slip. Standing behind the wheel, leaning against the leaning bench, Matt headed down the channel of the harbor. He maneuvered easily around the boats anchored and coming in and out while he scanned the bay for slow lumbering manatee.

As soon as he left the no-wake zone, Matt pressed down on the throttle. The engines immediately responded, and the boat raced toward open waters. He started to relax when the marina faded from view. Once completely out of sight to anyone on the shore, he changed direction and
headed toward Key Biscayne. Matt was no expert at subterfuge and couldn’t really imagine that he was being followed. But he thought, in an abundance of caution, this might work. The $200 Matt paid Carlos also ensured that no one else would be able to borrow or rent a boat at the last minute as Matt had done.

Twenty minutes later he arrived at Jimbo’s Shrimp Shack on Virginia Key, the lesser known of the two barrier islands separating Miami from the Atlantic Ocean. Key Biscayne, the more commonly known of the two, had been developed as a luxury residential property. Virginia Key, on the other hand, was relatively untouched and offered the most privacy. Jimbo’s was a local watering hole located on the northeastern end of the island and tough to find unless you were local and had been there before.

As he approached the landing, Matt navigated around decrepit-looking houseboats that, if not abandoned, most definitely should have been. After shutting down the engines, Matt jumped off the boat and tied off the lines to the dilapidated pier. As he walked toward Jimbo’s, Matt looked back toward the ocean. There were no boats careening down the inlet spraying salt water in their wake. No cars blowing clouds of dust as they came barreling down the lone dirt road leading to Jimbo’s. Matt’s first attempt at subterfuge may have been successful, or perhaps Stephen’s paranoid delusions had been unfounded.

Jimbo’s was a throwback from simpler times. A ramshackle fish smokehouse that started as a gathering spot for fishermen had became the quintessential South Florida watering hole for characters ranging from crusty old sea
dogs to City of Miami politicos. The roof of the main structure was leaning in, the house jam-packed with lobster traps and old fishing gear. As a result, patrons sat outside in lawn chairs and even a few Lazy Boy recliners that had found their way there. When the weather was cold, patrons huddled around bonfires created in old steel drums filled with whatever had washed ashore that couldn’t be salvaged. The trees shading Jimbo’s were lit up with outdoor Christmas lights, illuminating the tree branches the year around. From fishing lines tied to the branches hung beer cans, empty bottles of alcohol, plastic cups and deflated beach balls and inner tubes. This completed the look of the strangest all-season holiday tree.

Matt walked slowly around the main structure and to the booths located on the other side of the house. On the way, Matt checked out the bocce ball court and surrounding tables for any sign of Stephen. The only patrons were two old guys sitting in aluminum lawn chairs in front of the bonfire and four other people playing a game of bocce ball. One of the players was the bartender. He looked up briefly to acknowledge Matt with a nod before tossing the ball high in the air. It fell in the sand with a muted thud before rolling into his opponent’s ball, pushing it out of the way. Matt grabbed a Bud Light from the cooler and placed two dollars under the rock on the table next to the cooler. He settled into a lawn chair some distance away from the bocce ball players.

Thirty minutes later he was still waiting. Matt had just begun to worry that he had lost Stephen again when a
shadow whispered behind him and a man slipped into the empty chair next to him.

“Hello, Matt,” Stephen said as he settled into the seat.

“Man, am I glad to see you,” Matt said urgently as he leaned toward Stephen and clapped him on the shoulder. Stephen returned the greeting.

As Stephen opened his own beer, Matt surveyed his old friend. Stephen’s usually neat blond hair hung slick and stringy to his shoulders. His face hadn’t seen the sharp end of a razor in quite some time. His clothes hung loosely on his frame, and yesterday’s T-shirt was another day riper.

“I’ve been trying to reach you since I got back,” Matt began.

“Sorry about that, Matt, but I’ve been off the grid.”

“I can see that. But I’ve been really worried about you.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, when I couldn’t get hold of you, I went to your place--”

“You were at my apartment?”

“Yeah. When you didn’t return my messages, I decided to check on you in New York. And, well … After, seeing your place, I only got more concerned.” Matt hesitated when he saw the look on Stephen’s face. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, man, but it was trashed.”

When Matt was finished giving him the details, Stephen shook his head. “I’m not surprised. I’ve pissed off a few people.”

“What’s going on, Stephen?”

For several seconds, Stephen didn’t say anything. He simply stared out at the water in front of them.

“Since you’ve been back,” he began slowly. “I’m sure you’ve noticed the media’s take on the situation in the Middle East. The coverage has been a little weak, to say the least.”

“Sure, anyone who’s been to the Middle East couldn’t help but notice that the media has done a piss-poor job on their coverage of what’s going on over there. But what the hell does that have to do with anything? With all this secrecy, your apartment, you,” Matt gestured at Stephen.

“Actually, I believe it has everything to do with what happened to my apartment and… so much more.”

“You’d better fill me in then, Stephen, because I’m not sure I understand.”

“Listen, Matt, you don’t want to get involved in this. That’s actually the reason I wanted to meet with you -- to warn you.” Stephen leaned in toward Matt. “You need to walk away from this.”

“Walk away from what, Stephen?” Matt replied. “What the hell’s going on?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Matt grabbed Stephen’s arm. “Yes, I do,” he insisted. “If you’re in trouble, I want to help.”

The men looked at each other for several seconds. Stephen was the first to break away. He got up and walked toward the shack. Just as Matt began to wonder whether Stephen had disappeared again, his old friend returned holding two beers. He passed one to Matt before settling back into his chair.

“When I got back from the Middle East, I noticed there was a lot of misinformation about what was going on over there,” Stephen began. “At first, I thought it presented a great opportunity for me. I had real-time information that I thought would be highly marketable. But as I continued my research, I realized there was something more going on.”

Matt nodded his head in agreement. “I know what you’re talking about. For me, since I’ve gotten back, the only thing more astounding than the information gap was the general indifference about that gap among members of the news media and the editors.”

“Exactly. It seemed that even the so-called liberal media outlets weren’t interested in the facts. At first, I was shocked, then I was intrigued. It was around this time that I got in touch with Bob. He and I began to discuss the idea of media manipulation.”

“Bob Sandberg was involved in this?” Matt asked, a black hole starting to open in his gut.

“Yeah,” Stephen confirmed. “I needed his help, his connections.”

Bob had significant contacts. Matt recalled that he had used his relationships in Washington to get himself admitted into the embed program when it was originally instituted during the Bush Administration. From there, he had a bird’s-eye view of the war on terror, literally and figuratively. Stephen and Matt got a good laugh every time they caught a flash of Bob in a brand-new flight jacket reporting live while perched on top of an M-88 tank recovery vehicle in a convoy flying toward Baghdad. When the attention turned to Afghanistan, Bob had been able to
use those same contacts to get strategically placed there as well. Meanwhile, Stephen and Matt -- who decided to take the moral high ground and not join the embed program -- were left wandering around on their own scavenging for whatever news scraps they could find.

“With Bob’s help, I figured out that the news about the events in the Middle East wasn’t merely the result of sloppy reporting or the failure of the media to combat the spin-doctors in the White House. Unfortunately,” Stephen continued. “we also discovered just how serious the group behind this is about keeping their not-so-little secret.”