The Enemy Inside (22 page)

The reality was that in America the truly rich had regiments of lawyers and accountants with numberless schemes to avoid taxes. And when that wasn’t possible, they could hide their money offshore. There were members of Congress who knew that, because that’s where they hid theirs.

It was irony indeed that in the late 1980s as Beijing edged closer to reclaiming control over the island of Hong Kong and its adjoining territories, many wealthy Chinese abandoned the island, seeking refuge in the West. This despite the fact that Chinese leaders gave firm assurances that they would not interfere with the financial gold mine that comprised international trade in Hong Kong.

Recently there had been difficulties in Hong Kong, demands for democracy. But Cheng knew in the end that Beijing would win. The answer, as always, was patience.

Land prices in Hong Kong were higher than ever, the highest in the world, and business thrived. The reality was that those with power and wealth always thrived, no matter the nature of the political process. To Cheng it was ironic to watch the wealthy capitalists in Hong Kong side with the Communist government in Beijing. Both wanted the same thing, stability. Democracy was expendable. Money could still be made. China needed capital from the West to fuel its modernization on the mainland. Accordingly they did what was necessary to carry the nation forward.

Why slam the door closed in Hong Kong when you could filter the message of libertine freedom from the West and use the open door of commerce and China’s favorable wage rates to bleed your adversary dry? And besides, what better place to do business if your craft was espionage than your own island of economic avarice?

TWENTY-FIVE

O
ne of Herman’s friends in Mexico supplied him with a local SIM card for his unlocked cell phone when he first arrived with Alex. The Telcel card allowed him to make local calls that could not be traced to Herman by name.

Each SIM card carried its own phone number. Throw the old one out and you could disappear and start over again with a new number. Mexico was now requiring some form of identification such as a passport to buy a SIM card, and to Herman, this was a sign. Every government on the globe was crawling up your behind to keep tabs on you like you were their puppet.

He used the local card each morning to check with DHL to see if any messages had come in under the name H. Diggs. This morning he was told there was one.

He trudged a few blocks before waving down a cab and did the drive, about four miles to Zihua and from there to the DHL office in an industrial area of town. He picked up the envelope at the counter and stepped to the side near the supplies as he opened it and read. The message caught him by surprise. He read it twice to make sure he understood what they were saying. Tory Graves, Alex’s boss, was dead.

Herman didn’t need the details to know that the man had been murdered. In the note, crafted by Harry, Hinds referred to it as “another accident.”

The lawyers had cut Alex off from the Internet when he headed south to Mexico with Herman. They made sure that he left behind all of his electronic paraphernalia. His cell phone, computer, and iPad were in storage, at least until he returned and things were safe. They didn’t want him leaving digital bread crumbs behind for the killers to follow.

Now with Graves dead, Madriani and Hinds worried that Alex might see it on the television in Mexico or read it from some other source and panic. They sent the short message south by DHL to Herman, an overnighter, to alert them and to tell them both to just sit tight and wait.

As far as Herman was concerned, the lawyers’ recommendations on something like this, where to stay and how to hide, were just that, recommendations. That’s why they paid him. Herman would be guided by his own senses, and at the moment they were setting off uncomfortable vibes exploding like sky rockets. Four people murdered in accidents three thousand miles apart in little more than thirty days. Whoever was after them wasn’t wasting any time.

Herman’s first instinct was not to tell Alex about Graves’s death. The last thing he needed was a kid in panic. Perhaps later. For the moment he decided just to pick Ives up and move, a new location, somewhere not too far, north or south, up or down the coast, simply telling Alex that this was all part of the original plan.

To Herman, the fact that they had murdered Graves meant that whoever was after them would now double down on their search for Alex. These were people with resources. They had proven that. It was possible that they already had a lead on the kid. Even if the chances of this were slim, the smart thing to do was to cut all the threads and force them to start looking all over again. If nothing else, it would buy time.

Herman fingered the cell phone in his pocket, thinking to call his contacts in Mexico, some quick help to relocate, but then thought better of it. He could call from the condo.

He crumpled up the message in his hand, but he didn’t throw it out. Instead he stuffed the wrinkled ball of paper back in its envelope, tucked it under his tank top, and headed out. This time at a faster pace. He moved quickly along the street under the blazing morning sun looking for a taxi, anxious to get back as quickly as possible to the condo and Alex.

Becket is not an altogether uncommon name. Making it even more difficult is the fact that the girl, Ben, did not give me a first name, nor did she tell me if it was spelled with one
t
or two.

It’s even a longer shot because of the question of whether Mr. Becket actually lives in the area at all. He could have been a guest at the party, perhaps buying a table. From what Alex described, the gathering sounded a lot like a fund-raiser, the older upper caste in tuxedoes and evening gowns, catered food and drink, all under Chinese lanterns.

We have issued a subpoena for information from the navigation satellite company supplying the equipment in Alex’s car, but the company’s legal team is dragging their feet.

So I’ve had my secretary and another assistant working on trying to find Mr. Becket for the better part of a day, and so far they have come up with forty-seven exact matches for the surname Becket under one of its two spellings in San Diego County alone.

Using the information given to us by Alex as to the general location of the party we have narrowed it to three exact hits showing that name with Del Mar postal addresses. This is, of course, assuming that Ives paid enough attention to know where he was when he got out of his car that night. He said it was somewhere up near Del Mar.

I had my secretary run a data check on the three Del Mar hits. One of them was quickly dissolved, a woman, fifty-eight, living in a rental unit in the village. The other two both show unlisted telephone numbers with addresses on the bluffs above the town center. I know the area. These are large homes, some of them bordering on estates, with oversize yards and pools.

If Alex was here, it would be a great help. A simple drive-by and he might be able to recognize the place.

As it is, I do the next best thing. A Google Earth satellite check of both addresses shows one of them to be a definite possibility. It has a very big yard, what you might call grounds, much of it covered by the canopy from trees and a large pool in the backyard, oval in shape, same as Alex described when we questioned him. If I could only zoom in and look through their windows I would know more. I will have to wait for the next generation of Google for that one.

I head out by myself in the car, a task I would usually assign to Herman. But then he’s gone, too.

By the time he got to the steps leading up to the condo, Herman was sweating like a bull and was out of breath. He had done the three blocks since stepping out of the cab in record time. He didn’t want the cab pulling up to the front door. He rested for a few seconds at the foot of the stairs, if for no other reason than to regain his composure. Body odor was one thing, anxiety was another. It wouldn’t do for Alex to smell the scent of panic on the man who was hired to protect him.

He climbed to the second floor and used the key in the door.

“That you?” Alex was in the second bedroom down the hall to the rear.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Did you get it? What’d they say?”

“Nothing special,” Herman lied. “Just checking in. They do have a new location for us, however. We’re gonna have to move.”

“Why’s that?” Alex popped his head around the open door and looked down the hallway at Herman standing in the entry. “Jeez, you’re all sweaty. Why don’t you take a shower? At least get comfortable. Why are we moving?”

“They found a better location,” said Herman.

“Where is it?”

“I’ll know in a few minutes. I’ve gotta make a local call, some arrangements. But you can start getting your stuff together.”

“OK.” Ives disappeared back into the bedroom. “Won’t take me long.”

They were both living out of suitcases. Herman went into the front bedroom and closed the door. He took out his cell phone, pushed a few buttons, put it to his ear, and waited for somebody to answer. On the third ring there was a pickup.

“It’s me,” said Herman. “I need some help now! We gotta move and do it quietly and quickly, quick as we can.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere but here,” said Herman. The problem was that the arrangements for the condo had been made before Graves was killed, in the panicked hours following the fiery crash at the gas station in San Diego. There was no way to be sure what kind of surveillance they might have been under, even at the Iveses’ house. The only way to be certain was to move to a new location where no one knew where they were, not even Paul or Harry. There was a reason why fugitives, narco kings, and the rest never slept in the same location two nights in a row. Herman was beginning to feel that same urge now.

The guy on the other end asked Herman if there was some emergency.

“I don’t know. For now I’m just tryin’ to be safe. Fill you in when you get here. How soon?”

The man told him twenty minutes. Herman said, “See you then,” and hung up.

He went into the bathroom, grabbed his shaving gear and a shirt that was drying on a hanger. He looked in the mirror and realized that Alex was right. He needed a shave and a shower. His face was drawn, tired. In his hand was the skull shaver he used to maintain his shiny dome. Herman wondered how much gray would appear if he allowed it to grow out again. He didn’t dwell on the thought. Instead he went back into the bedroom and put the shaving gear in his bag, folded the shirt and laid it in the open suitcase on the floor.

He started to walk away, stopped for a second, thought about it and went back to the suitcase. He reached under a stack of shorts and felt around until he found what he was looking for. He pulled it out—Springfield Arms .45 semiauto pistol, the ultra-compact with the short barrel. The whole thing, from hammer to muzzle, was no more than six inches. Flying in a private plane and landing on a dirt strip had its advantages.

He unzipped the mesh bag mounted along the inside of the suitcase and felt around until he found the heavy clip. There were two of these. Fully loaded, they carried seven rounds each. Eight, if you popped one in the pistol’s breech after sliding the clip into the gun’s handle.

Herman quietly slipped the clip into the gun and gently pushed it home until it clicked. He didn’t rack a round into the chamber as he didn’t want the telltale sound traveling through the common wall into Alex’s room. He put the loaded gun under the top pair of shorts in the open suitcase and headed out toward the kitchen to grab a bite to eat while they still had time.

TWENTY-SIX

T
he residence belonging to Rufus Alexander Becket is indeed lavish if its outward exterior is any indication. I can see where this might have put Alex off from the instant he stepped out of his car. From the street, it sits behind an immense southern live oak tree that must be at least two hundred years old. Its sprawling and arching branches cover what looks like half a football field of front yard, some of them touching the ground.

Around the tree in a semicircle are boxed hedges lining a circular driveway. Behind all of this is what looks like a two-story French provincial house, though I cannot see all of it. It appears to be something right out of Burgundy or the Loire Valley, as if it might have been plopped down here from a hot air balloon complete with its slate roof. The roof alone is something I am guessing would cost close to a million dollars, given the sprawl of the place.

If I had to guess, I would say none of this is new construction. From the look of it, it probably dates back to the thirties, one of the old estates still left from the golden age when a handful of tycoons developed the area and built the Thoroughbred horse racing track that is, as the crow flies, little more than a mile away.

I park on the other side of the street and study the place for two or three minutes from my Jeep. I don’t dare sit here for long. This old vehicle with its partially singed and now-discolored ragtop is certain to raise eyebrows in this neighborhood.

I step out, quietly close the door, and cross over to the driveway on the other side. There is a brass plaque near the edge of the curb. It’s a historical marker. “This Diegueño Oak is believed to be nearly five hundred years old and is thought to have stood on this spot in 1542 when the Portuguese explorer Juan Cabrillo landed at Point Loma.”

I was wrong. It is more than two hundred years old. And from the looks of it, the cables supporting the branches and the carefully manicured and tended ground around its trunk, it may be here long after my bones have turned to dust.

I head up the driveway. A long walk. It takes several minutes to make it to the front of the house, up the white brick steps to push the brass knob for the doorbell. I don’t hear a thing. I am guessing that the oak on the front door may be older than the tree out front, and perhaps thicker. Finally it’s opened by a man in livery, formal attire not seen in many places these days.

“I’m here to see Mr. Becket.” I hand him a business card.