Operation Mockingbird (16 page)

“How does that help?”

“I remembered asking Stephen how he was able to uncover the scandal. I mean, the government accounting office isn’t exactly known for its ability to identify incompetence and corruption. And the company reaping the benefits of the government’s lack of adequate oversight certainly isn’t going to disclose what’s really going on. I asked Stephen how he was able to figure it out, how he was able to uncover the scam.”

“And?”

“Stephen mentioned someone who did work for the contractor and had the computer skills to track down the common officers and/or owners of the many different shell companies that were awarded the contracts. He was able to use that information to connect back to the one contractor.”

“And?” Alex urged. “That’s the guy you think was Stephen’s contact? What was his name? How do we get to him?”

“Hold on, Alex,” Matt said holding up his hand. “I don’t know for sure that this is the guy. Being a good journalist, Stephen never confirmed that was his source. But I think it could be.”

“Okay ...”

“ I think I might have a good idea who it is.”

“That’s great! But, how...?”

“I think I actually know him -- I think I may have introduced the two of them. If it’s the guy I think it is, his name is Patrick -- a computer genius who has done complex programming work for some of the largest companies in the world. He’s kind of . . . eccentric, I guess you could say. A very nice guy and really smart.”

“This is great, Matt,” Alex said. “I just can’t believe he’d be willing to talk to us after all that’s happened. And based on what we know, I can’t say I blame him.”

“Well, that’s just it.” Matt shifted in the chair. “He hasn’t exactly agreed to meet with us.” He paused. “I haven’t spoken to him yet.”

Alex looked at him, her brow furrowed. “Then how do you know he’ll meet with us tomorrow?”

“Simple. Tomorrow is Saturday. The Heat are playing.” Matt continued as Alex looked at him quizzically. “And I know just where this guy will be watching the game.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE BAR AT KEG SOUTH is smaller than 1,000 square feet but set up to allow for maximum occupancy. There was a long L-shaped bar surrounded by bar stools. Four picnic tables ran parallel to the long side of the bar with a row of high-top tables running along the wall on the same side. A pool table, jukebox and two video games took up the rest of the small space. Two large flat-screen televisions at either end of the bar and several smaller strategically placed televisions ensured that you could spend hours here and never miss a major, minor or quasi sporting event. The windows were blacked out and the only natural light came when someone opened the heavy steel door to enter or exit. The bar had a limited menu but the beers were ice cold and the Keg Burgers grilled to perfection.

Dan, the bartender, had worked at The Keg almost as long as Matt had been coming and Matt received a warm greeting when he walked in the next afternoon.

“Matt, we’ve missed you,” Dan said as he placed a beer in front of Matt. “You were gone a long time.”

“I’ve been doing a little travelling, Dan,” Matt said with a grin.

“So I heard,” Dan replied. “Actually, I heard that you were over in Afghanistan. And that you got blown up.”

“Naahhh,” Matt responded. “Any reports of my death were greatly exaggerated.”

Not long after Matt introduced Alex and Dan, the two were talking like old friends. To Matt’s surprise, Alex was holding her own in a conversation about the top performers in the NBA regular season and her prognostications for the playoff games. Matt was left nursing the beer Dan had placed in front of him while the two discussed the Miami Heat’s chances in the conference finals.

It was Saturday afternoon and the place was packed with the usual suspects. Patrons ranged from college kids whooping it up with their friends to middle-aged men throwing back a few while their kids monopolized the pool table and video games, to old-timers nursing their beers and telling the same old stories.

“Interesting taste in art,” Alex commented after Dan left to go attend to some regulars sitting in front of empty glasses and giving him the stink-eye.

Matt followed her gaze across the bar to a picture of a girl with her naked chest painted like the face of two cats. Solid black noses and whiskers obstructed the view of the most intimate parts of her breasts. It was likely a souvenir from someone’s crazy weekend at Fantasy Fest in Key West.

The wall had started as a locker room of sorts when the bartenders began putting up pictures of their girlfriends, wives and, later, children. It had evolved into a shrine to the history of The Keg and its regular clientele, including pictures of customers with their catches from Keg South-sponsored fishing tournaments, girls in bikinis or various other stages of undress and even a few baby pictures, which seemed out of place. Juxtaposed one on top of the other, the pictures covered every inch of the wall and overlapped some items that had likely been there for twenty years.

“This place is an institution, Alex,” Matt responded looking across the room. “I had my first legal beer here.” He pointed to a high-top table in the corner. “I interviewed the Mayor of Miami at that very table.”

“Relax, Matt,” Alex said smiling. “I actually like the place. Although the decorating could use a woman’s touch.”

Matt snorted. He doubted the owner Butch would be very receptive to the idea.

Matt gave Alex his recommendations and, when she deferred to his judgment on the house specialties, he placed their order. Fish dip and an order of wings to start, then Keg Burgers for each and an order of fresh-cut French fries to share.

Several regulars came over to say hello and welcome Matt back. He introduced Alex to the guys. All eyes scanned her up and down and then registered approval. Alex smiled graciously in return and Matt sat a little taller.

“So what time are we expecting this guy?” Alex asked when the commotion had died down and the fish dip had arrived.

Matt looked at his watch. “The Heat game starts in thirty minutes. He should be here soon.”

Alex took this opportunity to turn her attention to the food in front of her.

After taking a few bites, Matt continued. “Last year, during basketball season, football season and even baseball season -- just about every time I came in here -- Patrick would be here. He’s a regular. A real friendly guy. An Irishman who loves to drink and have a good time.”

“Imagine that,” Alex replied stuffing her mouth with a cracker full of dip.

“Anyway, one day I’m here with Stephen and Patrick shows up. We all started talking and he mentions he’s a computer technician. Stephen was a bit of a computer buff so he was really into it.”

Alex nodded as she proceeded to dig into the Keg Burger that had just arrived.

“So, we start talking about computers, technology and the work Patrick does. By this time, we’ve all had a few drinks but Patrick proceeds to blow us away with talk about the stuff he’s working on. Computer security. Firewalls. Cookies that, once planted on your hard drive, would track user activity and then transmit that information back to the mother ship -- or wherever.”

“Patrick definitely knew his stuff. And, unlike me, Stephen understood most of what he was talking about.” He picked up a chicken wing out of the basket between
them. “I recall they exchanged contact information and knowing Stephen’s ability to foster good contacts, sources and experts, I’m sure Stephen kept in touch.”

“This all sounds promising but why do I get the impression there’s something you’re not telling me about this guy?” Alex asked as her eyes narrowed. “Last night, you said something about his being eccentric.”

“Well, yeah.” Matt considered his response as he wiped some blue cheese dressing off his chin. “Patrick was always coming up with these wacky conspiracy theories. Kind of like CIA involvement in the Kennedy assassination but crazier. Like, get this.” Matt took another bite of his burger, washed it down with some beer and wiped his hands clean. “Remember, shortly after 9/11, there was a rumor that Osama bin Ladin had placed a number of stock trade orders before 9/11 that enabled him to profit from the attacks?”

“Sure,” Alex said nodding. “Supposedly, he went short on stocks like some of the airlines that were impacted -- betting the stock would fall -- and bought significant interests in defense contractors -- betting the stocks would rise. The rumor was that he made millions of dollars off those trades.”

“That’s right. But that rumor just kind of went away. There was never any confirmation of whether it was true, even though tracking the rumor would have enabled the United States government to determine information about the al-Qaeda money network. Right?”

“Well, I’m not sure I ever really bought into all that, but, yeah, I’ll go along ...”

“Patrick’s theory was that it was in fact investigated but the results were never released because they discovered that al-Qaeda wasn’t the only one that placed those kind of trades.” Matt paused. “The CIA did the same thing.”

“What?” Alex didn’t bother to hide the skepticism on her face.

“I know. Crazy,” Matt conceded. “Patrick tried to convince me one day that the CIA knew about al-Qaeda’s plans but they couldn’t stop the attacks because the CIA didn’t know the exact details. They found out about the investments al-Qaeda made because they had been tracking that money for years. Someone high up decided that if they couldn’t stop the attacks, the United States government could at least make some money. So the CIA matched the trades.”

She shook her head firmly. “I don’t buy it.”

Matt shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t either. But he made some pretty convincing arguments.”

After a moment, Matt continued. “Patrick also believes that the federal government uses hidden computer cookies -- very sophisticated cookies -- to track not only browser activity but everything that ordinary citizens are doing on their computers. Things like which websites they’re visiting and what they’re doing there, the books they’re buying, where they’re traveling -- everything. All of that information is run through a big computer server in the sky and filtered through a computer program that identifies certain patterns. And there are people monitoring all this information.”

“This Patrick guys sounds completely paranoid,” Alex said.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Matt responded. “Patrick is brilliant but definitely a little nutty.”

Alex wiped her mouth with a paper towel and dropped it into her empty basket. “So, this guy believes that the government is monitoring everything we do. And say, for example, if a kid is writing a paper on al-Qaeda for a school project, mom is exchanging Internet chat with someone in the Middle East and dad is ordering fertilizer online from Home Depot, the government may come breaking down the door because a software program tells them there’s a possible terrorist in that household.”

“Exactly.”

“I see,” Alex continued. “And it is the guy who is plagued with these paranoid delusions that we’re relying on to help us understand what’s going on?”

“Pretty much,” Matt conceded.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

MATT AND ALEX LOOKED toward the door when cheers rang through the crowd of regulars. Patrick had arrived. The Irishman was a large man. Matt guessed he stood over six feet tall and weighed more than two hundred pounds. He had a ruddy complexion behind a thick mustache. In blue jeans and a flannel shirt, he looked more like a construction worker than a computer expert. Patrick started at the front of the bar, greeting the regulars with a hearty hello in a deep baritone voice and a clap on the shoulder. It took a few minutes for him to finish making the rounds and find his way to Matt and Alex at the opposite end of the bar.

“Matt, my man, it’s about time you came back to visit us little folks,” he said swallowing up Matt with a big bear hug.

“And who’s this beautiful lass?”

“This is Alex Doren, Patrick.”

Patrick took her hand and put it to his lips for a quick gentle brush of a kiss.

“It’s my great pleasure to meet you, Alex.”

Patrick settled his large frame into the stool next to Matt as Dan slid a beer down in front of him.

“Cheers,” Patrick said, raising his mug. He had a mischievous twinkle in his intelligent eyes that Matt could see even behind his thick glasses. “To you, luv,” he said to Alex. “May any misfortune that follows you never catch up.”

They all clinked glasses.

Matt sat back and watched as Patrick chipped away at any reservations Alex may have had about him with the charm that was his birthright.

“How the hell have you been, lad?” Patrick finally asked, turning his attention to Matt, even as he stole a quick glance at the television screen. “It’s been a long time.”

“I’ve been better,” Matt replied.

“Well, that doesn’t sound good. And, here you are in the company of such a beautiful lass and good friends on such a fine day. What could possibly be better?”

Matt waited until after the tip-off that signaled the start of the game before saying anything. “Patrick, we need to talk to you about Stephen,” he finally said.

“Yeah? Where is the bugger?” Patrick said, taking a sip of his beer and then looking at Matt. “Why has he not come with you? I heard he was in town.”

Matt and Alex shared a quick glance.

“Stephen’s dead, Patrick,” Matt said.

Patrick’s jaw dropped and his eyebrows came together in a dark scowl. “What the bloody hell are you talking about, man? I just saw him ...” He looked from Matt to Alex. “Is this some kind of joke?” Creases etched deep across his forehead as he continued to look at both of them. “Bleedin’ Jesus, you’re serious,” he said when neither responded. He pounded his fist against the bar.
“Shite.”

“I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you. I know you guys were close.”

Several more seconds passed before Patrick spoke. “What happened?”

“Stephen was killed at a homeless camp under the overpass on Biscayne Boulevard.”

“A homeless camp, you say?”

Matt nodded. “Apparently, Stephen had been living there for at least a few days.”