Ransom is a believer and a practitioner.
Obeah is a complex religious stew of voodoo, Catholicism, and old African lore. It uses complicated symbols referencing many gods. The red and white beads she wore honored the god of destiny.
I’d often seen men wear them in Cuba and the Bahamas.
But only women wore white and yellow beads. They celebrated Ochun, the goddess of rivers and love and female sensuality. I found that combination-river, love, sensuality-charming, and I never looked at Ransom without thinking of that word.
Ochun.
I looked at her now as the phone began to ring. Watched her turn to me and pantomime eating with a spoon: Did I want my soup now?
I shook my head quickly and touched finger to lips because Bernie Yeager had just answered.
In any phone conversation with Bernie, you have to first go through the ceremonies of security, and then through the social pleasantries.
I had to wait for him to return my call from his office-could picture him in a space crowded with computers, satellite dishes, electronic maps-then we chatted for a time while he recorded then matched my voiceprint to confirm I was who I said I was.
“Marion,” he said apologetically, “in a world so crazy as this? Even with an old friend like you, Bernie doesn’t take chances.”
I would have been shocked if he had.
Bernie is a legend among the world’s elite intelligence community-the few members familiar with the man’s work, anyway. It was Bernie who’d consistently intercepted radio and Internet communications between the Taliban in Afghanistan and terrorist cells during the Iraqi war. It was Bernie who’d invaded and compromised computer communications between Managua and Havana during the Sandinista wars in Nicaragua.
A year or so ago, I read that he was given a lifetime achievement award by an esoteric organization called the Association of Old Crows. The AOC has thousands of members, all engaged in the science and practice of electronic warfare information operations. Because his accomplishments could not be listed, Bernie’s introduction was short, but the ovation was long.
Years ago, I did the man a favor. He’s repaid me many times over. Yet now, after inquiring about my health, and then about a couple of mutual friends, Bernie said to me, “When you call such an old man as me, and at an hour such as this, I know it’s serious. I know it’s because you need something special. With you, Marion, the answer is yes. It is always yes. If it’s an arm you need, a leg you need-God forbid. The answer is still yes.”
I said, “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,” and then told him what I wanted.
When I’d finished, Bernie allowed a space of silence to communicate to me that he was taken aback, before he deadpanned, “A password. A simple password. You are asking me, Bernie Yeager, for a lady’s password. The kind that gets her into a civilian Internet server so she can trade stock tips and recipes and gossip with old sorority pals. Marion”-he scolded me-“that’s like asking a concert pianist for ‘Chop-sticks. ’”
I said, “It may be more than that. But there’s not a lot else I can tell you.”
“It’s something you can’t tell me? Your friend who has every level of government security clearance outside maybe a certain Oval Office in a certain building that I’ll let you guess the color of, thanks very much. It’s personal, that’s what you’re saying.”
“That’s right. It’s personal.”
“Marion…” He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “Marion, I shouldn’t even ask someone like you such an offensive question. But in such a business-” He shrugged his shoulders with vocal inflection. “Offending people is part of the job. I want you to tell me that you don’t want this lady’s password because you think she’s cheating. Because you think she’s writing love letters to another man.
“All around the world,” he said, “people are trying to steal the passwords of their unfaithful lovers. So sad. This may sound strange coming from someone who does what I do, but I still believe that a man and woman’s privacy is sacred.”
I said softly, “If I told you, departmental statutes would require that you pass the information along to other offices. It has to do with my family, Bernie. If I don’t get the password soon, someone might die.”
He said slowly, “But the only family you have is the son down in. .. Masagua… oh my God, Marion!” He said the last horrified and heartbroken. “Oh, my dear friend! Jiffa, that’s what I am. Such a putz. I make jokes while you’re dying inside. Of course you can’t give me the details. But what you can do, right this instant, is go get on your antique computer and send me the e-mail addresses you want hacked. Everything you have. Do it now.
“So I stay up past midnight. I turn into a pumpkin, what’s the worst that can happen?” He’d shrugged his shoulders again with a sharp upswing in pitch. “Such terrible things go on in this crazy world of ours. I’ll call you the moment I have anything.”
EIGHTEEN
When the phone rang forty-five minutes later, I came rushing out of the lab to answer. Got to it on the third ring, picked it up, and said, “What’d you find, Bernie? Did you get the information?”
After what turned out to be momentary surprise, a woman’s voice replied, “This isn’t Bernie, but I do have some news. Dr. Ford? You are Marion Ford.”
I realized I was speaking to Detective Tamara Gartone. After I’d identified myself, she apologized for calling so late, but said she was required by law to contact the victim.
I said, “Huh?”
“You,” she said. “You, the victim. Normally, someone at the county jail would have made the notification. But I told you I’d call personally, so I am.”
What was she talking about? I was still flustered by my blunder answering the phone.
“The man who assaulted you is going to be released from jail within the next few hours,” she said. “Don Jorge Balserio. That’s what we’re required to let you know. Personally, Dr. Ford, I think it’s a hell of a mistake, and I can’t believe we’re doing it. Turns out, though, we’ve got no choice. Balserio-it’s General Balserio-holds a diplomatic passport. Nicaragua.”
Finally, I’d caught on. “You’re letting Balserio out of jail tonight?”
“Later on this morning. I know, it feels like the same day. I’m not certain of the exact time he’ll be released. It’s because of his diplomatic status. Are you aware of what that means?”
I told her I was. Diplomatic immunity has allowed rapists, thieves, and DUI killers to leave U.S. soil and live happily ever after without trial or punishment. It’s well documented that a serial rapist, the son of a Ghanaian attache to the United Nations, waved and laughed at police from his Newark departure gate, while his last victim lay near death in a Yorkville hospital. Because of an archaic treaty, neither our county, state, nor even the federal government can detain or prosecute a foreign official who holds a diplomatic passport.
She seemed impressed that I was so well informed. “It’s been that way since the Vienna Convention of 1961,” she said. “Because we’re so close to Miami, we deal with it occasionally. Just like this guy Balserio, they’re always pompous jerks, and they never cooperate, because they know they’re going to walk no matter what.”
“What about the other two? The ones with the Nicaraguan driver’s licenses.”
“No, they don’t have diplomatic status. But the charges against them aren’t nearly as serious. They’ll be out soon anyway. General Balserio, though. I make him as the bad one.”
Her agency had followed procedure. They’d contacted the U.S. Department of State, which had contacted the Nicaraguan embassy, formally requesting that Balserio’s immunity be waived. The request had been denied, so the man would soon be free.