by Bob Graham
The younger man began to pace the serenely patterned carpet. “Mr. Chairman, we have abided by your rules. Our operative in Malaysia clearly overreacted, against all our guidelines. We believe he may have been mentally disturbed to react the way he did, and I assure you, he will not be involved with any future operations.”
“A little late, wouldn’t you say?”
“Certainly,” the younger man said with regret. “He was supposed to follow the model by which the senator and the black man in the Caymans were dealt with—in a much more orderly fashion, with our agents quickly taken out of the country.” He sipped from his delicate china teacup. “We have a new matter. The senator’s daughter, the photographer Laura Billington, has been enlisted as a Peninsular associate. In Jeddah she received information from a grandson of the king.”
“Was that the same young man who tumbled from the Imperial?”
“Yes. He told Ms. Billington enough to impress her, and she, in turn, repeated this tripe to a young analyst at State’s INR bureau.”
“Is that the same underling you told me was poking around in Saudi Arabia and Malaysia, asking questions about stale 9/11 matters?”
“He is,” Jeralewski answered.
“Umpff,” he scoffed. “That doesn’t sound too serious to me. Do you know what Ms. Billington had been told?”
“About our special program with the kingdom. That His Highness was negotiating with Osama bin Laden to share some of its results. As you know, when we concluded our understandings with the King, he committed that he and his successors would guarantee that none of the project’s output would go beyond the control of the royal family without our explicit sanction. King Khalid Ibn Abdul Aziz has broken this solemn understanding.”
“God damn,” muttered the older man. “I was afraid the old Lion of Arabia would replicate Munich in Riyadh to hold onto power. It appears he has done so with a modern Hitler aspiring to harbor nuclear bombs. Who knows about this?”
“At least Billington, her INR friend Tony Ramos, and probably Ramos’s superior, William Talbott. The secretary has spoken to me, and she is blaming us for allowing this to happen and the possible impact it could have on the election.”
The older man leaned forward, “In other words, Roland, she will throw us under the bus, if necessary. What was the line from the old Mission Impossible show—‘The Secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions’?”
The younger man nodded grimly. “It goes beyond the secretary. We cannot count on any friends we have in government to continue to protect our activities.” The younger man paused and glanced out to the Pacific before proceeding. “Ms. Billington is another matter. She is a very difficult, quixotic, self-centered woman. It was for her other qualities, access and creativity, not to mention her financial vulnerability, that we took her on.”
“And you are convinced her value overrides her liabilities?”
With his hands clinched behind his head, Roland responded. “Yes. She has made a surprisingly creative observation that might just lead us to resolve several problems at once.”
“What time parameters are you contemplating?”
“Our team is analyzing the strategy right now to contain the damage already done. It is not going to be an easy month.”
His companion sighed, “The last month before an election never is.”
The men rose and walked to the glass wall facing the Pacific.
“At least some of the news is encouraging. The Afghanistan developments have totally rattled the oil market. This afternoon, the cost of a barrel moved from ninety to ninety-eight dollars.”
As the younger man escorted the elder to the elevator, they paused for a glimpse of the cable news on the television in the reception room. An intense commentator, with Biblical assurance, intoned, “The death of Pakistani president general Ali Siachen, ambushed in his helicopter, has brought the instability in Central Asia to crisis proportions. Before the smoke from the stricken aircraft had been extinguished, thousands of insurgents were in the streets of Karachi. While the culprit has not been identified, our sources are confirming that Iran is almost certainly involved.”
SEPTEMBER 15–16
Washington, D.C.
Tony knocked on Carol’s door with his signature two shorts, a pause, and one short. Carol opened it and clung to Tony. He saw her eyes were swollen from crying as she buried her blotchy face in his chest.
Tony lifted her to the sofa, closing the door behind them. Carol was in the professional woman’s uniform of just-above-the-knee blue skirt and matching loose blouse. From its wrinkled condition, Tony assumed it was what she had probably worn to the office. He stroked her unkempt blond hair.
“What is it? Has something happened to Suzie?”
“Thank God, no. Tony, somebody killed Hector and I’m responsible.” Carol broke into sobs.
Tony was silent, continuing to console her with gentle strokes of his finger through her hair. When she had gathered herself, he asked her if she felt up to telling him what had happened. “To start with, who was Hector?”
“Hector was the sweetest man and he loved your grandfather.” Between bursts of tears she described her meeting with Hector Nuñez in George Town, his relationship with Tony’s family, his assistance in allowing her to execute her assignment.
“At around three this afternoon an FBI special agent came to my office at the Treasury. He told me Hector had been murdered on the same night he took me to the bank vaults. From what the Cayman police have been able to determine, I may have been the last person to see him alive, except for the person who shot him. The agent asked me a lot of questions and said I would likely have to go back to the Caymans to be a witness. I may even be under suspicion. Tony, I don’t know what to do.” Carol clutched him as she broke down again.
“The first thing is to pull yourself together. From what you’ve told me, there is no way you could be a credible suspect. There must have been people who saw you at the Marriott that night. No murderer would wait twelve hours to leave the scene.”
Carol interrupted, “And Tony, there is something else. Just like in Zermatt, a man was stalking me in George Town. He hid from me at Stern’s and then followed Hector and me when we left the bank. The last thing Hector said to me was to be careful and get out of the Caymans as fast as possible.”
“I’ll report that tomorrow to Mr. Shorstein,” Tony promised. “The best thing for you is to get control back in your life, starting tonight. Why don’t you wash up and I’ll get supper?”
Carol nodded and walked toward her bathroom. Tony went to the kitchen.
Tony had lived alone long enough to be a pretty fair cook. Looking in the refrigerator, he saw the ingredients for paella, one dish every Cuban child learns to prepare. By the time Carol had gathered herself and dressed in casual jeans and a T-shirt, he had a bowl of the prawns, clams, mussels, calamari, rice Valencia, peppers, onions, and saffron that constituted this Latin standard. He put two plates on her coffee table. The final touch was chilled Adelita, a dry white Spanish wine.
A great deal had happened in both their lives since brunch at the Eastern Market. As they each forked bites of the paella and sipped wine, Tony recounted his trek from Riyadh to Jeddah and on to Kuala Lumpur, his near misses at death, and the briefing he had given Ambassador Talbott, and explained why he was now concerned for Carol’s safety. The Cayman stalker was one more reason for apprehension.
“You’ll be getting Secret Service attention, including periodic surveillance of this building. If they feel circumstances warrant, they’ll provide personal protection, here and escorting you to and from work. Are you okay with it if it comes to that?”
“After what you’ve been through, my situation is a rose garden. Yes, I am very satisfied. There is one more development, but I’ll save that for later.”
Carol, now in better emotional control, filled in the details of her brief time in the Caymans, concentrating on what she had found in the vaults and her c
onviction that without Hector she would have been stonewalled. “Tony, what do you know about Peninsular?”
“It’s a huge, very successful and influential private-equity firm. It was established in the 1990s by people with ties to the old administration.”
Carol listened thoughtfully.
“And it’s your conclusion that the vast majority of the BAE money didn’t end up in Jeddah or Riyadh but in Peninsular’s bank account in New York?”
“That’s what I’m going to tell my boss when I debrief him tomorrow.”
“What are you going to recommend he do with this information?” Tony asked.
“First, it’s important you keep this undercover. Before tomorrow only three people know I have this information: Mr. Nuñez,” Carol paused, “now only you and me.
“Second, the only way to find out where the money went next is to get access to Peninsular’s accounts. It might be done through SWIFT and FinCEN records, but that would be difficult. Peninsular is a complex partnership and no doubt has blended these funds with others to conceal the ultimate recipients. It would also take a serious commitment of time and resources. We don’t have the former and doubt this administration would make the latter available.”
Not hiding his frustration at the tangled web, Tony asked, “So what would you recommend?”
“Given the political context and high profile of several of the Peninsular partners, I will recommend a search warrant to make a preemptive strike on its headquarters. I think I have enough evidence to meet the test of probable cause to convince a magistrate. Then we would have the primary-source records to know where the money went and who might be criminally responsible.”
Carol let that hang in the air before she went to her next concern. “Tony, I’m afraid I might lose control again, but I have to tell you about the latest thing that’s happened.”
Tony held her again. “Don’t stress yourself. Tonight isn’t the last time we can talk about these things.”
“I know, but I want to. I need your advice and help. That special agent told me something else about Hector’s murder. In the rug where his body was found there were two .45 caliber cartridges.” She looked Tony directly in the eyes. “And I don’t think this is a coincidence. When I got back here at about six, these were leaning against my door.” Carol reached into her handbag and extracted two .45 caliber casings. “I have no idea ... what do they mean?”
“Jesus Christ,” Tony exclaimed. “Hector wasn’t the first person to get this message. This is just what was in the senator’s envelope. He’d found them in his car the day before he was run over.” Tensely, he recounted the events Billington had laid out in his memo of mid-July. “He thought they were a sign he was being watched. Tomorrow morning, in addition to Shorstein I’ll report to the D.C. police and the FBI guy. And I’m also going to call Talbott and ask him to call the Treasury secretary to beef up the Secret Service protection. In the meantime ...”
Tony began rolling up his right pants leg. Below the knee was the Glock 26 he had used in Jeddah. It was attached to his calf with a Velcro wrap. “Since I was given permission to take on Billington’s secrets, Talbott has insisted I carry this. You take it. Have you ever used a handgun?”
“Growing up in rural Tennessee, learning to shoot was a rite of passage; didn’t make any difference if you were a boy or a girl.”
“Carol, I never want to impose myself on you, particularly with what you’re dealing with. I’d had an idea what tonight would be like—some plans that have been on my mind since Jeddah. But if you’d rather, I can certainly understand if you want to be alone.”
She looked at him with a tenderness he had not detected before. “I suspect I’ve had the same steamy plans. I may be allowing other parts of my anatomy to control my brain, but I need to be with you tonight.” Carol lifted her T-shirt over her head. She was not wearing a bra.
It took half an hour and increasingly intimate foreplay to change the atmosphere from anxiety to passion. Tony lifted Carol and carried her into the kitchen.
Tony and Carol had developed their own techniques of sexual athleticism, but this was the first time amid the remainder of paella. Tony partially unzipped Carol’s jeans. He was further stimulated at finding no undergarments. As she leaned back against the sink, Tony rotated against her, initially through his jeans, and as they slipped progressively lower, down to bare flesh.
Carol wrapped her fingers around Tony’s shoulders. “Be gentle,” she whispered. Both naked, Tony again carried her to the bedroom and two hours of aggressive lovemaking.
At 7:00 a.m. Tony dressed in one of the suits he stored in Carol’s closet, took the elevator to the basement, and drove up the incline and out into the noisy, early-morning traffic on Connecticut Avenue.
Carol was emerging from her dreams when she heard what sounded like Tony’s signal knock on her door. Surprised but pleased, she went naked to the door, opened it slightly, and instantly tried to push it closed. The silencer of a Beretta blocked her attempt.
Fleeing to the bedroom, she grasped Tony’s handgun and fired it at the full-bearded man in a denim maintenance uniform standing in front of her. Her shot hit the doorframe.
The first blast from the Berretta struck Carol in the crotch. Blood spurted as from a fountain.
The man stood over Carol, her diamond-blue eyes aflame with panic and pain. He admired and was aroused by her bloody, supple body. With a faint smile he fired three shots into her breasts, and then, as a final flourish, one between her blue eyes.
Exiting by the same stairwell he had climbed less than ten minutes before, he walked to the side street and left in a waiting Dodge.
SEPTEMBER 16–18
Washington, D.C. ☆ Maxwell Air Force Base, Montgomery, Alabama
In his new office after his morning workout at the Senate gym, showered and suited, Tony checked with the State Department’s security officer and was given the name of Detective Randall Larsen at the District of Columbia Police Department.
“What was that address again?” the detective asked.
“3201 Connecticut Avenue, Apartment 441,” Tony repeated.
“OK. What’s your report?”
“Last evening while visiting with a lady friend at that address, Ms. Carol Watson, she told me that while she was on a Treasury assignment in the Caymans she was stalked by an unidentified man and, on returning to her apartment yesterday afternoon, she had found two .45 caliber cartridges in front of her door. She gave them to me and I have them here in my office.”
“We get a lot of suspicious incident reports here, but I’ve got to say that is a first.”
“Not to me,” Tony responded. “One of my former bosses, Senator John Billington, retired back to Florida, discovered two similar casings in his car and the next morning was killed in a hit-and-run being investigated by the Miami-Dade Police as a homicide.”
“I’ll check that out. What was Ms. Watson’s reaction?”
“Disturbed. No, I would say frightened.”
“Understandable.”
“I told her to be especially careful and I promised to call the D.C. police and report. And, Detective Larsen, there’s another piece to this puzzle: Ms. Watson is a forensic accountant for the Treasury Department. Last week she was reviewing bank records in the Caymans. On two occasions Ms. Watson felt she was being stalked. She was informed yesterday by an FBI special agent that an employee at the bank who was particularly helpful was murdered and that two .45 casings were found with his body. As soon as we hang up I’m going to call him and tell him that Carol has now gotten the same gift.”
“OK, I’ll call her for more details. And, Mr. Ramos, keep the cartridges in a safe place where they won’t be misplaced or altered. It is important we maintain the chain of evidence. I’m sending officer Lindsay Neas to collect them.”
“Thank you, Detective.”
Tony next called the FBI special agent and left a voice message that Carol had also been the recipient of two .
45 shells. John Oxtoby took Tony’s message about the stalker and promised to inform Samuel Shorstein. He seemed more convinced now that her suspicions were credible than he had been almost two months earlier.
For much of the three days since receiving Talbott’s mandate to contain the bombs Osama bin Laden appeared capable of possessing, Tony had focused on identifying the right questions and the beginnings of the answers. The United States had devoted years and more than a trillion dollars to the search for bin Laden, with no success. He had at most weeks, possibly days. And he was alone. From the White House to Foggy Bottom, the U.S. leadership seemed committed to a “Don’t blame me” cover-up.
The first question was obvious: assuming bin Laden has access to weapons-grade nuclear material, where and how would he most likely use it?
After talking to his sources, Tony was convinced that the best thinking on the subject was located at the Counterproliferation Center at Maxwell Air Force Base, near Montgomery, Alabama. Concerned that operating too openly in his office would bring him to the attention of the secretary’s henchmen, Tony waited until he had completed his work on Wednesday and left for a prearranged meeting at Maxwell the following day.
Tony was met at the Montgomery Municipal Airport by Chief Master Sergeant Willis Rankin, an Air Force escort. He had been a combat controller, parachuting in ahead of the 82nd Airborne. Sergeant Rankin was no stranger to the battlefield: Vietnam, Grenada, Panama, and Iraq in 1990–91 and during the last eight years, three tours in Afghanistan. On the thirty-minute drive to Maxwell in an Air Force’s GMC van they talked about Rankin’s recently completed fifteen-month deployment.
“I thought we were making progress until early last July,” Rankin offered.
“What kind of progress?” Tony asked.
“Well, the number of attacks was down and the Afghans, like the Sunnis in Iraq, seemed to see us as the likely winners and were joining our side.”
