Terminal Justice (34 page)

“I put it in this big barrel,” he replied, motioning to the large, green plastic trash barrel that sat on a cart with small, black rubber wheels. “Then I get in the elevator and go down to the basement and put the trash in the big Dumpster. Then the trashmen come in a big truck that makes lots of noise and take the trash away.”

“Then what?”

“Then I go to the cafeteria and have dinner. The cooks always have my food ready for me. Unless A.J. takes me to Burger King or the Pizza Palace. But tonight A.J. is at a meeting so I have to eat alone.”

“You know what, Timmy,” David said casually. “I’m going to
work late tonight. Why don’t you come up here when you’re done with your work, and I’ll join you for dinner in the cafeteria. How’s that sound?”

“Neat,” Timmy exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I’m going to get to work right now so we can go eat.” He moved quickly over to the side of David’s desk, where the waste bin was located, pulled the full bag out and replaced it with a fresh one. “I’ll be back soon, okay?”

“Okay.” David wasn’t sure what he planned to do after his dinner with Timmy, but he knew he had to do something. Maybe he could do a little investigating on his own.

David and Timmy stepped from the elevator and made their way down the corridor of the fifty-second floor. They had spent the last forty minutes in the cafeteria chatting over a dinner of fried chicken and apple pie, which Timmy had gobbled at an alarming speed. The cafeteria, which stayed open late for those employees who were putting in long hours, was nearly deserted except for two couples seated near one of the large picture windows that overlooked the bay. The San Diego skyline was twinkling in the distance, and David could see a large gray navy ship in the harbor. David and Timmy chatted about things that excited the young man—video games, television, and comic books. It was during the conversation that David noticed how fond he was of the child-man. Timmy was a true innocent who went through life sucking up all the joy and pleasure he could find and doing so with no malice toward anyone. He was quick to laugh and express his pleasure over the simplest things. David offered him a cup of hot chocolate while he drank coffee, and this prompted a quick clapping of the hands and a little jump for joy in his seat. Seeing such innocent expression of pleasure demanded a smile from anyone nearby.

But Timmy’s innocence also caused David guilt. He needed Timmy to help him do something that might not be viewed favorably
by others. Timmy had a key, a key that would open most if not all of the doors on the top ten floors of Barringston Tower. David needed that key but he couldn’t, wouldn’t ask Timmy for it. Timmy had been entrusted with it, and it was patently unfair for David to ask the young man to betray that trust. Still, David felt compelled to do something. He couldn’t stop going home because he feared that the FBI and CIA would show up to pressure him to service, yet he couldn’t dismiss them out of hand.
What if what they say is true?
David kept asking himself.
What if someone from Barringston Relief is accessing the computers at the CIA? What if that presented a danger to the country? Surely it wasn’t A.J., but what if someone, an employee, was using the Barringston computers to commit the piracy?
Such thoughts led David to take the next step. It was a little step, but something that made him feel that he was, at least, attempting to do right.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” David asked Timmy.

“Nuh-uh,” Timmy replied. “But I wanna watch
Star Trek
on television tonight. Okay?”

“Okay. I promise this won’t take long.” The two walked down the hall until they came to a door marked COMMUNICATIONS. David remembered it from the tour Kristen had given him on his first day of work. “Do you need a key to get in there?”

“Nope. There are always people in there.”

“Lots of people?”

Timmy shook his head. “At night there are only two. They listen to the space radio.”

“Space radio?” David inquired. “You mean the satellite communications?”

“Yeah. From space.” Timmy turned the doorknob and walked in with David close behind. One wall of the room was filled with electronic devices that looked like VCRs. David had seen similar devices in the homes of his church members who had satellite television. The black boxes with blue LED indicators were the
receivers and decoders. Judging by the number of units, the communications division must be tied into a dozen different satellites.

“Hey, Timmy,” a resonant voice called. “You’ve already been here, man. Don’t you remember?” The voice came from an obese man with sagging jowls in the corner of the room. He was leaning back in a large, heavily padded executive chair and was reading the comic section of the
San Diego Union
.

“Hi, George,” Timmy said with a wave. “No, I didn’t forget. I want to show David something.” The man looked David over quickly. David didn’t recognize him, but he hadn’t expected to. The last time David was in this room was at the beginning of the workday, not three hours into the evening. A different shift would be working at night.

“Okay,” the man replied. “Say, I forgot to ask you earlier. Did you like that new Nintendo game I loaned you?”

“Yeah, it’s real neat, but I can’t get past the second level.”

“That’s okay. Just keep trying; you’ll get the hang of it.” The man turned to David. “Are you new around here?”

“I started a few months ago,” David said, trying to sound pleasant. “Are you here all alone?”

“Yeah. Normally, Hector is here too, but he’s got the flu. First casualty of the fall.”

“Can you work alone?” David asked, hoping he didn’t appear too inquisitive.

“Sure,” George replied, riffling his paper, “it’s all automated. I’m just here in case something bad goes down. Like the Dr. Rhodes thing. Occasionally, someone in the field needs an answer right away, then I can get pretty busy putting people in contact with other people. But most of the time it’s pretty laid back.”

A beep emitted from the computer console. “Uh-oh, I must be a prophet. Here comes a call now.” George threw his paper on the floor and turned his attention to the monitor. “It routes itself, you know. All I have to do is make sure there’re no glitches. If there are,
then I take the call myself and start playing telephone tag with whoever wants to reach whomever.”

“Well, we won’t bother you,” David said. George waved nonchalantly. “What’s down here, Timmy?” David pointed down another hall that led from the communications room.

“Offices,” Timmy replied.

“Are those the offices with all the computers?” David kept his voice low. Timmy nodded. Casting a glance back at George and seeing that he was engrossed in watching the communiqué’s connections being made, David walked down the hall. The hall was short and had two doors on one wall. One door had a small plastic sign that read DIRECTOR, COMMUNICATIONS. The other door had a similar plaque that said PRIVATE. Have you been in here before, Timmy?”

Shaking his head, Timmy said, “Uh-uh. It’s locked.”

“I’ll bet that special key of yours will open it. Want to try?” Timmy shrugged, pulled out his key that dangled on his new Shamu key chain, and inserted it in the lock. Nothing happened. Timmy turned the key again, but still nothing. “Strange.” David said quietly.

“Not really,” a husky, dry voice said.

David snapped his head around and looked down the corridor. Standing there with her arms folded across her chest, a cigarette dangling from her mouth, was a middle-aged woman with a streak of gray in her hair. Her eyes were squinting against the rising stream of smoke that emanated from the tip of the cigarette. Standing behind her was George.

“You can’t open it because the room is private—just like the sign says.”

“Oh, hi, Eileen,” Timmy said, smiling. Eileen didn’t return the smile. “This is my friend David.”

“I know who he is, Timmy,” Eileen said firmly. “What I don’t know is why he’s trying to get into a room where he doesn’t belong.”

Timmy dropped his head. It was clear that he had picked up the anger in the woman’s voice. “I was just … just …”

“That’s all right, Timmy,” David offered as he put his hand on Timmy’s shoulder. “She’s not angry with you. She’s angry with me.”

“Why?” Timmy wondered aloud. “We didn’t do nothin’.”

Eileen inhaled deeply on her cigarette and blew out a long blue stream of smoke. David felt the odd compulsion to remind her that smoking in office areas was illegal in California, but he didn’t think she’d care.

“Actually, Timmy, I let my curiosity get the best of me. It’s always been a problem of mine. Something about closed doors piques my interest.”

Neither Eileen nor George moved.

“That’s my office you’re attempting to break into.”

“That door says director of communications,” David said meekly. “Isn’t that your office? We didn’t go in there.”

“I have two offices,” she replied curtly. “Not that it’s any of your business, now is it?”

“Of course not,” David replied defensively. “But I think you are misunderstanding my intentions here.”

“I’m not misunderstanding anything, Dr. O’Neal.” She approached David and Timmy slowly until she was only three feet away. David could smell the tobacco smoke, and Timmy coughed. She held out her hand and said, “May I have the key, please?” David removed the key from the lock and meekly handed it to her.

“My Shamu key chain,” Timmy cried and stomped his feet.

“There’s no need to upset the boy,” David said firmly.

Eileen Corbin took the cigarette from her mouth with one hand and raised the key chain to eye level with the other. “Do you want your key and key chain back, Timmy?” she asked coolly.

“Yes, it’s mine,” he stammered. “A.J. gave it to me.”

“Timmy,” Eileen said, “this key is a big responsibility. You must always make sure that you use it only in those places where you work. Do you understand?”

Timmy’s eyes were brimming with tears. “Yes. Yes, I understand.”

“All right, I’m going to give this back to you, but I want you to promise not to do this again.”

“I promise. I promise.” Timmy was hopping from one foot to the other with his hands stretched out before him.

“Here you go,” Eileen said and dropped the key into his palm.

“Thank you, Eileen, thank you.” Timmy stepped forward and hugged her quickly but backed away when the smoke caused him to cough.

“Go back to your room,” Eileen said, “and watch some television. Okay?”

“Okay.” Timmy was gone a moment later.

“I suppose you have a few things to say to me,” David said.

“Nope,” Eileen replied perfunctorily. “That’s not my job. I’ll leave that up to A.J.” David felt his heart stop. “I will, however, invite you to leave and not come back into my department.”

David flushed and left without a word.

MAHLI STUDIED THE MAN IN THE MIRROR. HIS shirtless torso was slightly hunched, his eyes red with fleshy pouches beneath, his brow wrinkled. He had lost weight. Not because of the famine but because of weariness.

“Tell me, Noonan,” he said to the young black man who stood just outside the bathroom door. The man was in his early twenties, tall, robust, and fiercely loyal. He had worked for Mahli since he was seventeen and had distinguished himself by doing what he was told without question. That undiminished obedience extended to his firing a .30-caliber machine gun from the back of a technical—a truck with a high-caliber machine gun mounted on the back—into a crowded gathering of a rival clan.

“It goes just as you planned,” the young man said with a voice that seemed too shrill for his age and build. “On your orders we began to roll out truckloads of food from Marka, Mogadishu, Hobyo, Hafun, and Kismayu. The food was distributed near existing foreign-relief camps. The people are very grateful.”

“And the flyers?”

“Distributed with the food, but many cannot read, so we shouted the news to them.”

“Do they believe?”

“Many do now; many more will soon.” The young man broke into a huge grin. “Soon everyone will know that the foreign food is tainted and that only the food you provide is trustworthy.”

Nodding, Mahli returned his gaze to the mirror. Two weeks ago he had not stood with a stoop, nor had his face been marred by as many wrinkles. But the days were taking their toll. The planning and supervision had been tiring work, but that didn’t bother him. What weighed heavy on him was the memory of his brother kicking and struggling as he plummeted to the ground. The image played over and over in his mind. Someone knew how to find him and to deliver their message by killing his brother, Mukatu. There had always been that risk, but Mahli had assumed that he could and would strike back immediately. But he couldn’t. He had finally figured out that the only group who would be so brash as to challenge him was Barringston Relief. The attackers had all been white, and that ruled out rival warlords. They were the only ones with sufficient reason and resources to do the deed. He had killed that white female doctor months ago, and now the Barringston people had exacted revenge. His theory was verified by the man who had rented the helicopter to the foreigners. He confessed, after a torturous hour of questioning, that Americans had rented the craft and that they paid in American dollars. Mahli killed the man himself.