Wrongful Death (12 page)

Not at the time, but Sloane had seen the picture in the article profiling Mills. “Donald Rumsfeld.”

“Ironic, isn’t it?”

“We chose the lesser of two evils,” Sloane said.

“We really had no choice. We didn’t have anything to interest the Islamic extremists—they hate us just to hate us. But when Iraq invaded Iran we had something Iraq needed.”

“Weapons,” Sloane said.

“Reagan directed the State Department to remove Iraq from its list of state sponsors of terrorism and was committed to doing whatever was necessary for Iraq to win that war. The Centers for Disease Control sent samples of every germ strain we had. And
between 1985 and 1989, the Commerce Department licensed seventy biological exports, including at least twenty-one batches of the lethal strains of anthrax. American and other foreign companies were also allowed to sell weapons directly to Iraq or through intermediaries, and to funnel unreported loans used to buy the chemicals. Daily intelligence reports confirmed the weapons and chemical shipments, and there is evidence the CIA helped coordinate attacks on Iranian troops.”

“Chemical attacks?”

“The Pentagon viewed the use of chemicals as just another way for Iraq to achieve its military objectives. They didn’t envision those chemicals someday injuring American soldiers.”

“What can you tell me about the companies that supplied the chemicals?” Sloane asked.

Mills shrugged. “More than one hundred and fifty total, with about half being American, are suspected to have supplied the basic building components and technical knowledge Iraq needed to develop nuclear, chemical, and biological weapons. UN weapons inspectors confirmed the chemicals to be part of Iraq’s biological weapons program.”

Mills handed Sloane a 1994 document bearing the imprint of the U.S. Senate Committee on Banking, Housing, and Urban Affairs. “Another Senate inquiry concluded that the precursor chemicals provided by U.S. manufacturers were likely the same chemicals used against U.S. troops and largely responsible for the illness known as Gulf War syndrome.” Mills opened his palms toward the ceiling and shrugged. “What more do I need?”

“The magazine article indicates there’s evidence some companies continued to illegally supply chemicals after the Gulf War.”

Mills nodded. “Iraq was forbidden to develop chemical weapons. Yet between 1991 and 1996 the UN Special Commission uncovered a massive biological and nuclear weapons program.
Documents have since revealed that the Iraqi government continued to purchase very large quantities of precursor chemicals and cultures from foreign companies.”

“How could those companies get away with it?”

Mills explained a complicated system in which the chemicals were sold through intermediaries in Syria and Jordan with the money to pay for the chemicals coming from Iraqi oil sales. When he had finished he said, “Your secretary said you represent the family of a national guardsman killed over there. Why would you be interested in Gulf War syndrome?”

Sloane removed the magazine from his briefcase, flipped it to the dog-eared page with the embedded box, and handed it to Mills. “I’m not. I’m interested in one of the companies on your list.”

KEN MILLS SIFTED
through the alphabetically organized folders. The folder for Argus International was near the front of the box, three inches thick, not including public documents from the SEC and other government permitting agencies.

“They’re in your neck of the woods,” Mills said.

“I’ve been there.”

Despite becoming one of the world’s largest chemical manufacturers, Argus had maintained its headquarters in Old Nisqually, Washington, where Houghton Park Sr. had established the company fifty years earlier. Sloane thought it made sense. The property taxes were probably minimal, and as Jenkins had said, it certainly helped security when your business buttressed a huge military base.

Mills stood at Sloane’s side as he flipped through the file. “Of all the companies, they appear the most discreet.”

“Any thoughts why?” Sloane asked.

“The American public isn’t exactly enamored with this war. That makes Northrup a natural target; every watchdog organi
zation out there wants a crack at him. If Argus illegally shipped chemicals while he was president of the company, the ramifications would be a public relations nightmare for both the administration and Argus, not to mention financially catastrophic. We’re talking about the potential loss of billions of dollars in existing contracts, and Argus would bear the brunt of any legal judgment because so many of the other companies listed in the report are either bankrupt or no longer in business.”

Further documents in the file indicated that between 1988 and 2002, Argus received more than $10 billion in government contracts. “Looks like they can afford it,” Sloane said.

“Maybe,” Mills said. “But let me tell you, nothing makes a Harvard-educated businessman’s ass pucker quite like the thought that he could go to jail. These aren’t Enron-type crimes. We’re not talking about the loss of retiree nest eggs. If Argus is implicated, they’re potentially responsible for the loss of American lives. Think about it. Whose chemicals were we looking for?”

Sloane focused his attention on a list of current and former Argus executives. It read like a who’s who of the president’s current administration as well as of former administrations. Argus did not discriminate between Republicans and Democrats.

“So what’s your connection to Argus?” Mills asked.

Sloane looked up from the documents. “The current head of its security forces in Iraq is the captain who led the mission the night my client’s husband was shot. It may be nothing, but there have been a series of odd coincidences, and I’m not a big believer in coincidences.”

Mills frowned. “Neither am I. Not anymore. I don’t want to alarm you, but the security company I’m working with said Argus is known to hire Special Forces types, soldiers highly trained and skilled in covert activities.”

“I know,” Sloane said. “I’ve seen their operation.”

“Then let me impress this upon you. If things continue to seem out of the ordinary, don’t be a hero, and don’t downplay it. Call the FBI.”

“What did they say, other than to hire security?”

“The first thing they said was to protect the people I love.”

SLOANE STEPPED FROM
the elevator and walked across the building lobby with his cell phone pressed to his ear. Outside the building he struggled to hear over the traffic on Wilshire Boulevard.

Tina’s cell phone rang through to her voice mail. Frustrated, he hung up without leaving a message. There was no point. She never listened to her messages. She only checked the call log. Sloane paced the sidewalk, waiting for his cab. Maybe it was better she hadn’t answered. What would he have said? “How are things going? Notice anything unusual?”

He flipped open the phone and tried again. No answer. “Damn.”

Speculating would only cause her alarm, and after what she had been through just two years earlier, abducted from a San Francisco street and held at knifepoint as ransom until Sloane returned the package Joe Branick had sent to him, she was liable to take Jake and leave.

He spotted his cab, hailed it to the curb, and climbed in. “LAX.” Inside, he called his office. Carolyn had him booked on a three-o’clock flight.

“Can you make it?” she asked.

It would be close, but a three-o’clock flight, barring any delays, would put him at Sea-Tac by 5:30. With luck he could be home by six. Tina and Jake would get home around four. That left them alone for two hours. “I’ll make it,” he told Carolyn. “Thanks. See you in a week.” Sloane disconnected and dialed a second number.

Charles Jenkins answered his phone on the second ring. “What did you find out?”

“Too much to explain over the phone. I’m on my way to the airport. How quickly can you get to my house?”

“Half an hour, why?”

“I don’t want Tina and Jake alone. Make up an excuse to be there.”

“What am I looking for?”

“Anything out of the ordinary,” he said. “Sweep the house for bugs.”

“Sweep it with what?”

“I don’t know. Look for things.”

“Argus?” Jenkins asked.

“I think so.”

Sloane hung up the phone and asked the cabdriver to hurry. He sat back envisioning himself poking a stick at a tiger through the bars of a cage. Then the tiger grew angry, lunged, and snapped the stick off in his hand.

SLOANE DEPLANED AT
Sea-Tac Airport, phone in hand. The flight had felt like the longest of his life.

“All’s quiet,” Jenkins said. “Jake’s fishing and Alex took Tina for a walk along the beach to give me a chance to go over the house. It’s clean from what I can tell. You want to tell me what has you so freaked?”

Sloane let out a sigh. “I’ll be home in fifteen minutes. We can talk then.”

THREE TREE POINT, WASHINGTON

CARS FILLED THE
public easement—fishermen who’d
come to fish off the beach at sunset. Sloane double-parked behind a van he recognized as belonging to a company that brought scuba divers to the Point. He hurried up the porch steps, calling out as he entered the kitchen.

“Anybody home?”

“We’re out here,” Tina replied.

Tina and Alex sat in the wicker chairs on the sunporch, two glasses of white wine on the table. Sloane tossed his coat on the couch in the living room and walked onto the porch, greeting Alex first.

“This is a nice surprise. What brings you here?” He hoped he sounded genuine.

Alex flipped the dark curls from her shoulder. “You know me. I’m always up for coming to civilization to do a little shopping.”

“Did you find anything?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No. Not a thing.”

“Where’s Charlie?”

“Just went to get another tank of propane,” Tina said. “We want to barbecue.”

He kissed her. “Where have you been? I called earlier.”

Her face brightened. “I have good news. I wanted to tell you in person.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist. “So tell me. I could use some good news.”

Alex stood. “I think that’s my cue to check on the coals.”

“It’s propane,” Sloane said.

“Whatever.” She picked up her glass and walked out, letting the screen door slap closed behind her.

“So tell me,” Sloane said.

Tina pressed closer. He felt the curves of her body. She laughed. “I can feel your heart pounding. Relax. I’m not pregnant.”

He took an exaggerated breath. “Whew!”

She punched his chest. “Stop.”

“Okay,” he said. “Start over. What’s the good news?”

“You remember that design I was doing for the building retrofit in Des Moines?”

“You got it?”

She punched him again. “Don’t spoil it.”

“Sorry.” He cleared his throat for a dramatic pause. “Yes, I remember the design for the building retrofit in Des Moines.”

“Well, I got it.”

“That’s great—that’s your first big job. You’re right, we need to celebrate. How about a trip to Cabo? We’ll leave tomorrow.”

She punched him again and pulled away. “Fine. Be that way.”

“I’m kidding. You know I’m happy for you. Tell me about it.”

“They loved my use of the existing space and my idea for a glass entry to take advantage of the southern exposure.”

“I knew you’d get it. You worked hard on that building.”

“And that’s not the only thing we’ll be celebrating,” she said. She laughed. “You deserved that. From the look on your face you’d think I told you I’m expecting triplets.”

“Hey, a man can only take so much good news in one day.”

“Uh-huh, sure.” She picked up her wineglass.

“So what else are we celebrating?”

“I promised I wouldn’t say, but Jake has something to show you.”

“He caught a fish!”

Her eyes widened and she made another fist, causing him to flinch. “Don’t spoil it. Act surprised.”

“He really caught one?”

“A king. And it’s
big,
so make a big deal about it. We’re having fresh salmon for dinner. You’re grilling it.”

“So the new lure actually worked?”

“Looks that way.” She headed for the kitchen. “I’m going to make a salad. Bring him and the fish up. He’s dying to see the guts.”

Sloane stepped outside. Alex stood with her back to the house
as if enjoying the view. The cloud layer had calmed the wind; the gray waters of the Sound lapped lazily onto the beach and a seagull mewed from its perch on a neighbor’s roof.

“Thanks for coming down,” he said.

“No problem.”

“Everything okay?”

She took a sip of wine and pointed out at the parade of boats on the water. “Charlie says everything is clean as far as a visual will tell us. When he comes back with the propane, he’ll check your car. I haven’t noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

Sloane let out a breath. “I guess I got a bit paranoid.”

“Better safe than sorry.”

“I’ll explain more later; right now I need to go act surprised at a fish.”

“It really is
big
,” Alex said.

Jake stood at the water’s edge twenty yards down the beach, but this time his head swiveled as Sloane approached, which meant he’d been watching for him.

“David!” The boy nearly dropped his pole, realized he still had a line in the water, and jammed the rod into the rocks, using a bigger stone to keep it upright.

“How’re they biting, Hemingway?”

Jake shrugged, hiding a grin. “Oh, you know, a nibble here and there.”

Sloane played along. “Well, like I said, you have to have patience. Only the really experienced fishermen land the big fish.”

Jake nodded. Then he burst. “Then that would be me!” He dropped to his knees in the rocks and pulled off the top of the cooler. He’d packed the salmon in ice. Its tail bent up the side. “Can you believe it?”

Sloane squatted. “My God, it’s huge!”

“I felt it hit, and when I pulled back, I knew I had him. My pole
was bending so far I thought it was going to break in half. But I didn’t panic. I just let him take the line. Then I started reeling him in, but not too fast. I played with him and let him have his runs to tire him out.”