“Come, Mr. Cevallos,” Miguel prompted. “There was another tunnel leading from the main cave. It may still be there.”
Angelo followed him down a shallow incline to where the original entrance of the mine was. He hated getting all this sand into his shoes and socks. The top of the original cave entrance had been blasted away, leaving a narrow channel that went on for about twenty paces. Angelo walked ahead and stood precariously on the edge of the pit. He peered down cautiously.
“Mr. Cevallos?” Miguel said, softly from behind.
As Angelo turned his head to see what Miguel wanted, he felt a hard, unyielding boot landing forcibly on his back.
The last words echoing in Angelo Cevallos’s mind, as he fell to his death down a five-hundred-foot pit, were those of Miguel, “I loved Bonita.”
Miguel, after taking a casual drive back to the Cevallos mansion with a smile on his face, walked into Angelo’s study and opened the safe. He took out all the money, and if he had bothered to count it, would have discovered that there was close to five million in one thousand-dollar denominations. He split it evenly between the staff and himself.
Chapter Seventy
Müller was thrilled with what he had just heard. The bug Yvonne had planted on James Clark had been sending nothing but static for some time, but he kept recording. Müller inwardly complimented himself for his diligence; no one else would have thought to do this. They would simply have shut the bug off, once the static started. But not Müller. That was the difference between managing and being in control. He was forward-thinking and always kept his options open.
According to the discussions between Clark, McIntosh and Labrowski, the actual document was transmitted from an agricultural district in Missouri, just south of Iowa. So that’s what Yvonne was doing there. Concealing something like this from him was sure grounds for instant dismissal. He would use the allocated salary for Yvonne towards his annual bonus next year. Forward thinking, that was the key to success.
Trish LaForgue had somehow falsified NSA’s data so that the transmission appeared to come out of the Mojave Wastelands. What, did she think that he was totally stupid? The Mojave is nothing but desert. Manipulating NSA’s data was treason. She was going down so hard that she’d never get up again. He was going to nail that woman’s ass. While she was rotting in a prison cell, he would be reaping the rewards of his well-deserved position as Director, Office of Security. All his arduous work was finally paying off and he’d have the deciphered document in his hands within the next forty-eight hours, guaranteed.
Frank Harris had hit the jackpot. He couldn’t believe that his one-in-a-million gamble had actually paid off. Reading the ampule’s label again, he verified that the DNA classification matched that of the sperm samples extracted from the murdered prostitutes. Returning the vial to its designated pocket, Harris closed the refrigeration unit’s glass door. Sitting down by the computer he’d been given access to by the privately-run Washington Sperm Bank, he carefully typed in the sequence of characters.
There were numerous details in the search result◦– Date of Entry, Date of Transfer from Baltimore, Retention Period, Donor’s Age, and so on, but Harris was interested in only two things:
Owner/Holder: Müller, Candice
Donor: Müller, Joseph
Why did Candice Müller’s name seem so familiar? Harris thought He mulled over the problem, and then it suddenly dawned on him. Some years back, her death received much media attention, largely because of her husband; Secretary of State, J. Levin Müller. He printed out all the details and drove quickly back to Baltimore. It took him just over two hours.
Not much made sense to Harris, so he figured he’d start with the coroner’s findings and then see what the newspaper archives had to say on Mrs. Candice Müller.
The autopsy indicated that the cause of death was accidental drowning in the Müller’s backyard pool. Among other details, the report noted that the recently deposited sperm was likely that of her husband, therefore no DNA testing was required. The newspapers, however, stated that J. Levin Müller was in Washington at that time and came back home immediately on receiving notice of his wife’s death. According to the news article, he hadn’t been home for two weeks.
Harris understood that because of their long working hours, many politicians preferred to stay in Washington, most having apartments there. In J. Levin Müller’s case, however, it seemed a bit odd to be away from home for two weeks. Even in the worst traffic conditions, the drive between The Capitol and his home on the southern outskirts of Baltimore wouldn’t take longer than two hours. Harris could only conclude that in his position as Secretary of State, J. Levin Müller needed to be readily available to the president at a moment’s notice.
Regardless of the circumstances, Harris felt a certain sense of pride. Only months from retirement, and he’d cracked a huge case. Typical of politicians, he thought. Always assuming that they could get away with anything. But not this time. Harris had all the evidence; DNA matching of the dead prostitutes with Müller’s sample safely frozen in the Washington Sperm Bank. Harris had to admit to himself that resolving the case really was more luck than skill. If Candice Müller had not kept a sample of her husband’s sperm, that slimy politician would never have been identified.
The district’s police chief was extremely satisfied with Harris’s investigation and was quick to tidy up this ongoing spate of murders. His precinct was starting to look bad in the eyes of the local community.
“Although we have limited details at this time, it is now known that former Secretary of State, J. Levin Müller, was allegedly responsible for the murders of five women. Unconfirmed reports claim that they were all local prostitutes working in the City’s alleged red-light district. The regional Chief of Police is unavailable for comment at this time. This is Kendra Kentrel, CNN, reporting live outside the Baltimore Supreme Court in Maryland.”
“I’ve heard enough,” Nathan said, getting up and turning off the TV. “Alleged this and alleged that. Is nothing fact any more? Anyway, I certainly don’t want horror stories before going to bed.”
“Maybe I can interest you in fantasy stories instead,” Emily said with an inviting expression. “Just something else,” she said, as an afterthought. “Have you noticed anything weird with Sven? Today he was moping around Info Tech like he was carrying the world on his shoulders.”
“You don’t think it’s the anniversary of his wife’s death, do you?” Nathan said.
“I don’t actually know when she died,” Emily said. “Maybe that’s the reason. We’ll have to do something to cheer him up.”
Chapter Seventy-One
James looked at the email again and shook his head. Nathan had already confirmed that it came via a single anonymous server, the address of which could no longer be traced. How seriously should he take this threat? He was to send the deciphered document to the email address provided or the data on SkyTech’s systems would be destroyed. Nathan had again verified that the forwarding address was anonymous and could not be traced to a known location or person. Sven was looking into this further.
Nobody could get into SkyTech’s systems, especially not the highly secured IBM in the Cube, three levels below the atrium. Nathan and James were the only two with full administrative access. A new password was auto-generated daily and sent directly to Nathan and James’s computers. To view it, a flash drive needed to be inserted which prompted for verification on the keyboard’s fingerprint scanner. Once verified, the administrator password would be revealed in clear-text. It had been some years since James required that level of authorisation, and Nathan very rarely found need for it himself.