The Land of the Free (14 page)

“So John, what should we do while
those lovebirds go diving and limbo dancing?” asked Frank with a smirk as they
sat in the Ferguson house.   Lyle and Jess had left the previous day, and they
were working out a plan of their own.

John scowled, not quite ready to
think of Jess as an adult.  “We’ve got plenty of work to do.  For starters, we
have to learn more about Morningstar.”

They started by searching the
internet for recent stories that mentioned Morningstar.  They waded through
many pages of search results, most of which pertaining to Morningstar’s conduct
in Afghanistan and the subsequent loss of their contracts and banishment from
that country.  John was growing frustrated trying to find anything new and not
recycled through the news grinder.

“I wonder what the impact was on
their finances when they lost the Afghanistan contract,” said Frank, providing
John with a welcome interruption.  “Too bad they’re not publicly traded, or
that info would be available at a glance.”

“Brilliant!” replied John.  “If
they borrowed any money, there’ll be a paper trail a mile long through the
investment banks.  We need to speak with an investment banker.  Do you know
anyone?”

“Sure, Troy Gilmour is a friend.”

John nodded his assent and Frank
made the call.  In less than a minute he was connected.  “Hey Troy, Frank
Goworski.”  After a few pleasantries, he cut to the chase.  “I have urgent need
of your help.  It has to do with Robbie’s death and probably Evan Bozak’s disappearance,
and it’s dangerous to both of us if you get involved.”

John listened intently to Frank,
anticipating what Troy might be saying.

“Me?  I’m already in up to my
eyeballs as usual.”

“Great, we definitely don’t want to
attract too much attention.”

“I need financial information on
Morningstar Security Services.  Any material changes in their creditworthiness
since losing those Afghanistan contracts.  Any significant borrowing they’ve
done.  And if you have information on any new investors then that also.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it was
them.”

“Okay, thanks for everything. 
Bye.”

Frank disconnected and said, “He’ll
get back to us in a few minutes.”

“Fine,” replied John, “Let’s see
what else we can dig up.”

John altered his internet search
criteria to exclude any references to Afghanistan and ran the search again.  He
quickly found a recent interview with Derek Ellis, touting a restructuring
program for Morningstar, including the formation of a subsidiary called
“Nightwatch.”

“They were on the memo Robbie discovered,”
said Frank.  “And now that I’ve thought about it, I’m sure I’ve heard that name
before at Tilbury.”

With another brief phone call,
Frank learned that Nightwatch had been retained by Tilbury to run security at
their port facilities across the country.  “When were they retained?” asked
Frank.  He nodded, then listened a while longer with a look of surprise on his
face.  “I’m going to lay low for a while.  You never heard from me, okay?”

“Well, the FBI has come around
Tilbury asking about me and if they know where I am.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. 
These guys have long puppet strings and they’re starting to pull on them.  What
else did you learn?”

“Tilbury hired Nightwatch just
after Torres booted Ellis and Morningstar from Afghanistan.  Nightwatch
controls the operations at our ports.  It’s more extensive than just security. 
They’re creating some friction with the unions by messing with operations. 
Word is they don’t know the business considerations at all.  But despite all
the complaints about the setup, the new owners seem to like it this way.  And
it’s an expensive contract to boot.  Whatever else turns up, I don’t doubt that
this contract alone will keep Morningstar afloat financially.”

The phone rang and Frank answered
it:  “Hi Troy, so what did you learn?”

“Really, when?”

“Yeah, we have that range of dates
already, they formed the Nightwatch subsidiary right around then.”

“That’s interesting.  Anything
else?”

“Okay, thanks, you too.”

“What’s up?” asked John.

“For a short time, Morningstar was
scrambling for money and getting turned down at every turn, until right around
when they formed Nightwatch.  They haven’t talked to a single bank since then.”

“So that confirms it.  They formed
Nightwatch for a preset purpose that included getting a ton of money from
Tilbury.  Frank, where is Tilbury’s nearest big port?”

“Newark’s one of our biggest
anywhere,” said Frank.

John pulled up a satellite view of
Tilbury’s Newark operation, just off the New Jersey turnpike.  They guessed
there were about 2,000 containers in the area just beside the channel where the
ships unloaded.  “I’d like to see how much security this place has, or needs. 
Frank, we’re going to Newark.”

“That sounds like a
great
idea John,” said Frank.  “Why don’t we call in advance so they know to expect
us?  Maybe they’ll give us a guided tour of the port facility.”

John disregarded the sarcasm. “That
would be good, but the port of Newark is not on most tour stops,” he replied. 
“And it’s a safe bet they’re not expecting us to drop by in person.  It’s
probably the last place they’d think to look for us.  The guys working there
won’t have any idea who we are.  I’ll bet Morningstar controls information so
tightly that the employees have no idea of what they’re into.”

After a light breakfast in the
shadow of Montreal, the “Feldsteins” boarded their flight to Aruba without a
hitch and by evening made it to Panama City.  Lyle reminded himself to again
thank Ahmed for the passports.  It could not be easy keeping up with new technologies
and coded linkages to databases.  After another night in a hotel near the
airport in Panama City, they boarded the short flight to Contadora again
without so much as a second look from security.  The airport on Contadora was
so small that Lyle was suddenly a little unsure of himself.  It would be
impossible to leave anonymously if anything went awry.

They arrived at the Hotel Contadora
and changed into swimsuits to enjoy a brief respite from the drama. 
Lyle
gave Jess an approving nod for the new bikini she’d picked up before they
left.  She blushed when he made a show of whistling at her, at the same time
appreciating that he was appreciating her.

The hotel was small by resort
standards, but was one of the biggest on the island, which was built up mostly
with small Inns.  The atmosphere was decidedly casual and there was a small bar
area near the beach, with shaded tables and a nice view of the water.

Climbing out of the water, Lyle put
on a Hawaiian shirt and announced that he was going to arrange a boat.  “What
can I do in the meantime?” asked Jess.

“Talk to the locals.  See what you
can learn about San Marcos, and what’s going on there,” answered Lyle.  “Seeing
you in that bikini, I can’t imagine you having any problem getting their
attention.”

Jess walked down to the bar, sat
down and ordered a Margarita.  “You alone honey?” asked the bartender.

“Might as well be,” answered Jess,
adopting the role of a bored, abandoned young woman.  “He’s off arranging some
scuba trip out to San Marcos or something like that.  Like I care about scuba.”

“San Marcos?” asked the bartender,
astonished.  “He’s not going to have much luck there.  That place is bad news. 
There are soldiers on patrol and aircraft will buzz anyone who gets too close. 
I don’t know that anyone will agree to take you anywhere near that island.”

“Well then, maybe I won’t be alone
after all,” replied Jess, glad for the information.

As she was speaking, another resort
employee joined in.  “I’m José.  If there’s anything you need, you come and see
me.  I can take care of whatever you want.”

He had a beaming smile and his eyes
scanned the whole length of her.  Jess quickly understood his interest, but
decided to play along for what it was worth.  “Well thanks, José.  I’m Rachel. 
My stupid husband is off trying to scuba dive at San Marcos where I hear they
waterboard you for passing within a hundred miles, so I’m stuck here.  I am
interested in the history of the place, though.”

“It was nothing just a year ago,”
said José.  “Then the North Koreans bought it and turned it into an armed
camp.  Me and my buddy we went there a few months back and –.”

“José!” snapped the bartender,
putting his finger to his lips.

“Well, I won’t go back and I don’t
think you’ll go either.  Nobody will take you there.  They’re all too scared.”

Jess wasn’t going to be scared off,
and decided to see what gentle mockery might achieve.  “I guess they’re all
afraid of the fire-breathing dragon.  Or maybe Doctor No lives there.  Maybe I
should go there to collect conch shells.”

José seemed embarrassed.  “Well,
there’s one guy who would probably take you there, but I don’t recommend doing
it.”

“Great!” exclaimed Jess.  “Call him
up for me, José.  You said you’d take care of anything.”

She slipped him a $20 bill.  After
a skeptical glance at her, he picked up his phone and made a call.  “He can
come by at 4:00.  In the meantime how about a nice massage?  I’m known for
giving great massages.”  He was again eyeing her up and down, so Jess laughed
and thanked him, gave him a pat on the shoulder, and returned to the room for a
nap.

Lyle returned about an hour later,
just as she was waking up on her own.  “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No,” replied Jess with a yawn.

“I struck out.  As soon as you say
San Marcos, it’s like you asked them to march through Mecca waving an Israeli
flag.”

Jess rubbed her eyes and spoke
while yawning.  “Our ride will be here at 4:00.  We’ll get to see Dr. No yet.”

“How’d you manage that?” asked
Lyle.

“I did what you told me and used my
charms.”

“I was afraid of that,” said Lyle,
rolling his eyes.

John and Frank set off southward
from the Ferguson estate, driving John’s Audi past New York City and onto the
New Jersey turnpike.  They took a convoluted trip to Corbin Street, where
Tilbury’s port facilities were located.  “Frank, did the other container yards
seem reasonably full to you?” asked John.

“Yes.  Now that you mention it,
they were.  And Tilbury’s are half empty. Take a look back over there away from
the loading area.  It looks like hundreds of black pickup trucks.”

They parked the car, and walked to
the edge of the fence surrounding the containers.  The port was tightly
access-controlled, effectively separated from the outside world.  “Customs has
to screen these before the American people can have their billion pieces of
plastic junk,” remarked Frank.  He removed a camera from his pocket and took a
tightly zoomed picture of the cranes unloading containers before quickly
putting it away.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, John, but
aren’t those pickups over there Chevys?”

“Yeah, I think they are.  They’re
made here in the United States so they’re not being imported.  Do you think
they’re exporting them to China?”

“I can rule that out completely,”
said Frank.  “This is a container terminal.  Cars are shipped in specially
designed ships that they just drive on for loading, and drive off for
unloading.  It’s not done in containers.”

It took little time before a black
Chevy Cobalt parked behind their car, and a large man in a green uniform
stepped out.  He walked over, forced a smile, and asked, “Are you gentlemen
looking for something?”

Frank looked at him and noticed the
Nightwatch logo embroidered on the man’s shirt.  “I’m an economist,” he said. 
“I wanted to see for myself the impact of extended low interest rates on
container traffic at a typical US port.  I find the Baltic Dry Index too global
in its focus, don’t you agree?”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” said
the security guard.  “If you don’t have permission to be here I’ll ask you to
be on your way.  I don’t want to ask twice.”

Scanning the area, John noted no
fewer than a dozen men in similar attire taking notice of them from within the
complex.  Many of them had started to walk slowly in their direction.  They
pulled away slowly, with the guard following closely behind.  The guard
followed them as far as the turnpike.

“That was just a local told to
watch the perimeter,” said John.  I think we’d have had worse hassles if he’d
called the Federal port cops.  Then we’d have to answer all sorts of questions
about what we were doing there.”

Frank wasn’t satisfied.  “How do
you know that about him?”

“He didn’t move like a soldier.  It
was obvious he had no training in combat.  Not even very much in the way of
sports, for that matter.”

They sat quietly for a while and
became completely enmeshed in stop-and-go traffic.  “You hungry?” asked Frank. 
John remembered they hadn’t had lunch and took the cue, pulled off the turnpike
at the next exit and stopped at a diner near the exit.

“You took some pictures, didn’t you?”

“Just one,” replied Frank, pulling
out his camera.  He zoomed the display to the activities of the crane unloading
the shipping containers.  There must have been 50 men in green uniforms, some
lightly armed, and all of them paying very close attention to the unloading
process.  “The place is crawling with Nightwatch uniforms.  What do you suppose
they’re up to?”

“Whatever the endgame requires. 
That’s what we’re trying to learn.  Did you notice the union guys doing the
actual work?  I’ll bet they aren’t too thrilled with all the extra attention. 
They may talk to us.”

It was now approaching 2 pm, so
they decided to try to meet some workers at the end of their shift.  They
returned to Corbin Street and found a neighborhood pub called Fred’s.

They entered Fred’s around 4:30,
just as a few patrons started to file in.  John and Frank took a seat at the
bar and ordered beers.  Trying to stay inconspicuous, they were intently paying
attention to the people and the conversations at each of the tables.  After listening
quietly for about a half hour, they noticed one group make reference to “those
friggin’ greenshirts.”  The rest of the group reacted with uniform disgust.

“Should we go and buy them a
round?” asked Frank. “Or would that be too weird?”

“Ideally, we could just chat up one
of them.  Group chemistry can be tricky,” said John.

“They might just split anytime,
John.  I don’t think we have a choice.”

“Okay then.  Do you want to be
lawyers or investigative journalists?”

“Lawyers, without a doubt,” replied
Frank.

“Why so sure of yourself?”

“Investigative journalists have
fallen much lower than lawyers in my book,” answered Frank.  “They haven’t
really investigated anything since Watergate, and I think that one was
cherry-picked because Nixon had lost favor with the elites anyway.”

“There are reporters who
investigate, but they don’t work for the major networks and newspapers, so
their voices aren’t heard.  But your point is valid.  These guys aren’t likely
to know that.”

“We’ll have to be damn good,” said
Frank.  “These guys don’t have advanced degrees, but I’d wager my house on
their bullshit sensors.”

“They probably expect lawyers to be
sleazy, so we can play to that stereotype.  This could be fun.”

…

Frank and John stood up from their
bar stool, and walked over to the table they’d been monitoring.  “Gentlemen, is
it alright if we buy you a round and ask a few questions while we drink?” asked
John, doing his best to produce a contemptible smirk.  They were met
instantaneously with suspicious looks.

“Strictly off the record,” added
John.

“You haven’t told us who you are,”
said one of the men.

“Oh, sorry,” said John.  “We’re
with a law firm in Baltimore, where we represent a labor group that has certain
issues with the greenshirts.  We’re looking for some context.  Patterns in
their behavior.  We heard some of your comments, and thought maybe you’d be
willing to talk.  I’m not interested in anyone’s name, and it’s only for as
long as it takes to have a round of beers together.”

Their expressions softened
noticeably at the prospect of getting some digs in at the greenshirts.  Frank
and John noticed the body language and took that as their cue to sit down.

The comments from the men started
coming so quickly they didn’t even need to ask questions.  “I’ve been unloadin’
ships for 15 years,” one man started.  “And now the new security guys tell us
how to do our jobs.  There’s more security than workers.  They tell us the
order to unload containers, where we can put ‘em, and which end first. 
Sometimes they make me unload ‘em backwards to the way the trucks come in, so
that slows everythin’ down.  They don’t give a shit about efficiency.  They
have some kinda’ ballet choreography they’re makin’ us follow.  They’re sure
not helpin’ Tilbury.  And the foreman’s just told to shut up and follow
instructions.  No one knows what the hell these guys’re up to.”

“They turned the place
upside-down,” said another man.  “They’re so screwed up, the place is half
empty.  Then everythin’ shows up at once and we start our ballet dance, as Joe
called it.  It’s like the opposite of efficiency.  Tilbury used to work on
efficiency, even brought guys in to organize us and find efficiency.  Now it’s
the opposite.”

A third man could hardly wait to
speak. “It used to be Tilbury managers running the show.  Then they were all
fired and a new guy came in with the greenshirts.  Now they run the place.  But
I can tell you this.  They don’t know squat about running a port.”

John posed a question to the
group.  “So would it be fair to say they have inordinate influence on
operations beyond any fair scope of ‘security,’ to the detriment of efficiency,
employee morale and profitability?”

“They don’t
influence
shit,”
said one previously silent worker.  “They run the show.  Other than that, it’s
as you say.”

“Well, at least they built us a
social complex,” said another man, laughing mockingly.  “Get this.  They put in
dozens of showers and bathrooms.  Do they think we like it here so much we
wanna’ move in?”

“So you think you gonna’ sue them? 
I don’t think that’s a great idea,” said the final man.

“Why not?” asked Frank.  “What’s
nice about being scumbag lawyers is we can sue someone for farting in the
office if we want to.”

“You’d make a killing off Larry’s
office!” added one of the men, to raucous laughter.

“Seriously,” said the final man, a
quiet man about 40 with thinning red hair and slender build.  “These guys are
tight with Morningstar Security and they’ll kill you before you can spend your
money.”

“We’ll let the senior partners
worry about that,” said John.  “If there are going to be any threats, they’ll
go to the decision makers.  What do you think they’re up to here with all this
meddling?”

The first man to have spoken wasted
no time responding:  “We’re rehearsin’ some sorta’ fast unload of a few hundred
containers.  It’s the same thing over an’ over.  If it were drugs, they’d care
‘bout efficiency.  But the order of everythin’s so important to them, it’s
gotta’ be somethin’ different.  I couldn’t tell ya’ what it is.”

“Well, maybe we could make some
phone calls and get some Feds to show up when they’re doing one of their
unloads,” said Frank, more provocatively than seriously. 

“Not a good idea unless you plan to
bring an army,” replied the red haired man.  “And even then, they’ve got enough
firepower in the warehouse to put up a good fight.  No SWAT team could stand up
to ‘em, that’s for sure.”

John made a show of taking that
comment very seriously.  “When we conclude the investigation in Baltimore,
maybe we’ll go to the Congress with this.”

“Unless they take over the
government first,” shot back the red haired man, to some good natured mockery
from the other workers.  John laughed with them, but inside the blood turned
ice-cold in his veins, as he realized the implications of the man’s comment. 
John thanked all the men, and again assured them that he knew no names, and
would soon forget faces also.

They left the bar but hadn’t
noticed the surveillance equipment at Fred’s, and the bartender who discreetly
tipped off his benefactors over the inquiries they had been making.  John and
Frank decided they were hungry and it was time to get some dinner.  The
sidewalks were right up against the street, and they had no reason to be
suspicious when a white utility van stopped beside them.  The side door of the
van slid open and two hooded men simultaneously pushed them from behind into
the idling van.  One of the men grunted, “got you, you bastards.”  They felt
the prick of the hypodermic needles in their arms, and as they collapsed
unconscious in the van, John thought he scratched the inner arm of one of the
men, whose voice sounded familiar.