The Scent of Revenge

by Russell Moran

  “Until they make a big discovery, all the hell we can do is watch talented young women cheering on Barney the dinosaur,” Barbara said.

  Chapter 42

  Joan Paddington, age 39, was the founder and CEO of Megasoft, one of the largest software companies in the country. She was in the boardroom of Goldman Sachs to discuss the upcoming initial public offering, or IPO, to bring Megasoft public. The business news had been lighting up like a switchboard about the move. Most analysts expected it to be the largest IPO since Facebook. One of the biggest assets of Megasoft was Paddington herself. She was to Megasoft what Steve Jobs was to Apple.

  She founded the company at the age of 25, not surprising in the youthful world of high technology. Forbes magazine once referred to her as “pure energy.” In the male-dominated industry of Silicon Valley, Paddington was a legend. With strategic acquisitions and brilliant marketing, she put her company on a pedestal. Like any dominant figure in business, she wasn’t without controversy. Although it was never proven, it was well known among insiders that Paddington refused to hire Muslims. An anonymous source was cited, quoting Paddington, “I don’t want any of my employees taking time off from work to spread a rug and pray.”

  George Morgan, CEO of Goldman Sachs, sat at the head of the table. A dozen employees of Goldman Sachs were at the meeting, most of whom were stock analysts. Three vice presidents of Megasoft were on hand, seated next to Paddington.

  “Joan, it’s a delight to have you here with us today. I’d be less than honest if I said that we aren’t excited about your upcoming IPO. You’ve built one hell of a company, and soon you’ll be a billionaire, which you well deserve. Our valuation numbers look fabulous, and I think the market will fall in love with this stock. A few of our folks have some questions for you.”

  “Why?”

  Everyone laughed, assuming Paddington was making a casual joke.

  “That’s a good question, Joan. Our people have been pouring over your books like fleas on a fox. But hey, stock analysts all over the world are going to have questions, so I figured we’d give you some practice.”

  “Who are you?”

  Only a couple of people chuckled. Paddington looked serious when she asked Morgan who he was.

  “I’m George Morgan, your key to a gigantic bank vault,” he said with a smile.

  “I forgot my umbrella.”

  “But it’s not raining, Joan.”

  “Maybe it will. Where’s my goddam umbrella?” she said loudly.

  Jack Levine, the senior analyst at Goldman, ignored the umbrella comments and decided to start asking questions.

  “Joan, we’ve noticed that your European sales have slowed over the past two quarters. Would you like to comment?”

  “Fuck ’em. We can sell our shit right here.”

  The room was silent, except for some nervous paper shuffling.

  Joan Paddington sat back in her chair, lowered her chin, and fell asleep, snoring loudly.

  ***

  That afternoon, Joan Paddington was admitted to Bellevue Hospital in Manhattan. A week later, suffering from advanced dementia, she took up residence in the San Jose Nursing Facility near her home in California. The Megasoft IPO was delayed indefinitely.

  Chapter 43

  FBI Director Auletta, Buster, and I met in Barbara’s New York office with our Australian bank examiner friend Trevor McMartin. Trevor had requested the meeting.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this, folks. In all my years examining business transactions, I have to admit I’m stupefied.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Baltimore, Trevor?” I asked.

  “It’s a lot bigger than just one location, mate. The subject I want to talk to you folks about today is ISIS, and its vast wealth. Ever since the constant terrorist attacks began on 10/15, a lot of people, myself included, have wondered how the jihadis are able to carry on such a relentless series of attacks, both big and small. Attacks like these can’t happen without money, lots of money. Especially since they’ve started recruiting what you call home-grown radicals, the pattern is clear. We’ve noticed this in Australia too. Think of the world of radical Islam as a business. I know that sounds absurd, but hear me out. The frequency of the attacks requires a lot of people. They need planners, bomb makers, as well as the actors themselves. In other words, ISIS and al-Qaeda are high employment businesses. High employment means payroll, a big payroll. Now it’s no longer a ragtag operation with low-skilled players. It’s a vast and complex organization.”

  “Why are we seeing such a large influx of money to the radicals, Trevor?” asked Barbara Auletta.

  “In the past few years, things have changed, Madam Director. ISIS now controls a large part of Syria, Iraq, and surrounding countries making up the Levant. Again, getting back to my business analogy, put yourself in the position of a stock analyst, which is exactly the way I operate. A good analyst would recommend investing, so to speak, in Jihad, Inc., for two main reasons: acquisitions and sales. First are the acquisitions. Because of their ongoing land grabs, their conquests have included vast physical assets. I’m talking about American military equipment and weapons that were left behind, as well as oil industry infrastructure. Even though the price of oil is down recently, the black gold provides a steady flow of cash. Beyond the physical assets, they have also plundered millions from banks. So that’s the acquisitions part of the business. They grow by acquiring assets.

  “The second part of their success has to do with sales. What do they sell? Death, or more exactly, the fear of death. You only need to turn on the telly to learn about the latest kidnapping ransom demand. If the ransom isn’t paid, as we all know, some poor bloke will lose his head, or worse. Remember that Jordanian pilot who they burned alive? Most of the big countries refuse to pay the ransoms, but that doesn’t stop their sales from being brisk.”

  “Are ransom demands actually being satisfied?” asked Buster.

  “Well get this, mate. The New York Times reported on a few of their ransom successes. France paid out the most to al-Qaeda affiliates, about $58 million. The next-highest payout was $20 million from Oman and Qatar. Switzerland paid out $12 million, Spain $11 million, and Austria $3 million in the same time frame. That’s $104 million, over just six years. Yes, folks, sales are humming. We may see Japan refusing to pay a huge ransom demand, but there are a bunch of willing ransom payers standing behind every one who declines. The money that the radicals make from acquisitions and ransom sales funds a big payroll, and don’t forget R&D. We still don’t know what’s behind the strange substance that’s taking down the young women, but you can be sure it wasn’t made in some garage with a chemistry set.”

  “So we’ve been operating on the assumption that we’re dealing with a bunch of sheep herders,” said Barbara Auletta, “but you’re saying that our enemy is wealthy and sophisticated and ready to use the wealth to kill us.”

  “Madam Director, you’ve summarized it perfectly.”

  Chapter 44

  “Rick, it’s Mike Busharif. I need to see you. How about the usual place, the Bethesda Terrace in Central Park?”

  Every time I meet Imam Mike, besides the valuable information he gives me, I look forward to seeing his latest disguise. Mike is beginning to love his status as a spy.

  I walked into the Bethesda Terrace restaurant. It was mid-May and the weather was perfect, so we agreed to sit at one of the outside tables. The hostess brought me to a table by the fountain. I scanned the diners, looking for Mike.

  A tall woman with long blond hair, wearing a tasteful blue dress, approached my table. She seemed to have a tough time walking in her high heels.

  “Looking for company, handsome?”

  I spit my club soda across the table. She was Mike.

  Mike sat down and cracked his knuckles. Our waitress came to the table to take our orders. She looked at Mike, smiling, but with frowning eyes. Mike put on his best falsetto imitation of a woman’s voice and ordered a cheeseburg
er and a Michelob. I ordered the same.

  “Rick, I think I have something that could be important. I’ve been hearing a lot of chatter about this, and something tells me it’s for real.”

  “Anything to do with water bottles?” I asked.

  “Yeah, it could have everything to do with water bottles. There’s a guy from Chechnya named Dmitri Pushkin. He’s a chemical engineer by trade and a professor at Chechen State University in Grozny. Every jihadi I’ve heard mention him refers to the guy as ‘the chemist.’ He’s definitely a radical Islamist from what I’ve been able to find out. He’s been connected in a bunch of terrorist attacks in Russia, all involving some sort of chemical substance. But here’s the big thing: I’ve counted six times that I’ve heard his name in the same sentence as water bottles. Four of those times also included the phrase ‘infidel bitches.’ Here’s a photo of the guy. I found it on the Internet on the Chechen University website.”

  “I assume that he resides in Chechnya, which sucks, because we sure as hell don’t have any kind of extradition treaty with them.”

  “He’s taken up a new temporary residence, Rick.”

  “Where?”

  “Baltimore.”

  ***

  “Buster, it’s Rick. My office, please.”

  It’s great that Buster’s regular office has been changed from CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia, to the FBI office in Manhattan. Having a spy on call is a gift.

  “Buster, I didn’t say what you’re about to hear.”

  “You’re turning into a real spook, Rick. What’s up?”

  “Do you have experience with interviewing a suspect without a Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court or FISA court order?”

  “You mean kidnapping somebody to pump him for information?”

  Buster likes to get right to the point.

  “Well, kidnapping is a strong word. I was thinking more along the lines of having an ‘encouraged conversation.’ ”

  “Who is he, where is he, and when do we grab him?”

  “His name is Dmitri Pushkin. He’s a chemical engineer and a professor at Chechen State University in Grozny, Chechnya. Mike Busharif told me all about him. Mike’s sources said the guy is a radical and has been involved in chemical attacks against Russian targets. Here’s a photo of Pushkin that Mike got off the university website. Mike also said that he’s heard Pushkin’s name in the same sentence as spray bottles or water bottles, and the phrase ‘infidel bitches.’ He now resides, temporarily, in Baltimore.”

  “Baltimore? Holy shit! We’ve got to talk to this guy. From what you just told me, we just may be able to get a FISA court order.”

  “Not a chance, Buster. All we could present is hearsay evidence, because no way in hell would I put Mike in front of a FISA court. Even if we did have Mike testify, all he would be able to relate would also be hearsay.”

  “Yeah, but FISA court hearings aren’t trials. They’re pretty loose with the rules of evidence, especially if the head of the New York FBI Office makes the presentation. That would be you, Rick. Also, I can check with immigration. I’ll bet anything that the guy doesn’t have a good visa. At bare minimum, we can then have the guy deported.”

  “I don’t want him deported, do you?”

  “You make a good point, Rick. When I read him his rights, I’ll say, ‘You have a right to remain silent, and I have a right to call the U.S. Citizen and Immigration and Naturalization Services.’ When do you want me to round up this scumbag?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “I hear you, Rick, but all of a sudden, I’m starting to doubt this plan.”

  “Why, this won’t be the first clandestine operation you’ve ever pulled off. I bet you can get the go ahead from Director Carlini himself.”

  “Wait a minute; let’s think this through, Rick. So we nail the guy and put him in an interrogation room. Do you expect him to say, ‘Oh, you guys must want to know about the shit I put in those spray bottles. I thought you’d never ask.’ No way. This guy is a radical. He thinks if we whack him, he gets to go to heaven and screw 72 virgins. How could we possibly give this guy a reason to open up to us?”

  “Why not sodium pentothal, good old truth serum?” I said. “The only problem is that you need corroborative evidence to back it up. But we’re not as concerned with prosecuting the guy as we are about getting scientific evidence. Remember, Doctor Buchannan and his team are totally focused on finding out what they can about the substance. They have the water bottle that we confiscated from that window washer in Manhattan, but they haven’t come up with anything yet. We’re looking for scientific evidence to solve a scientific problem.”

  “I agree,” said Buster. “I’m more concerned about the science than I am about legal niceties.”

  “Hey, Buster, you and I are lawyers. We’re overlooking something. So let’s say we get information out of the guy with sodium pentothal, and the Buchannan team finds out what the substance is as a result. That’s the corroborative evidence we need. Let the fucking Chechen government figure out how to extradite the man. Won’t happen. A certain inhabitant of the Oval Office will take a personal interest in this case. So we arrest the prick on American soil, try him for murder, and send him to prison forever. And I know just the guy to supervise our interview.”

  “Bennie Weinberg?”

  “Yup, Dr. Bullshit Detector himself.

  “Buster, clear this with Carlini. Let’s make this happen.”

  Chapter 45

  My plane landed at Dulles Airport at 10:30 a.m. on May 19. Bennie Weinberg, my friend and favorite shrink, always says the most important person in the world not to bullshit is yourself. I’d be bullshitting if I said that I wasn’t afraid of flying. The idea of a surface-to-air missile does nothing for one’s enjoyment of a flight. The very thought of a SAM streaking toward your plane makes you want to buy a bus ticket. My plane had a capacity of 200 people, but I counted an even dozen aboard. Because of the importance of air travel, Congress had passed an emergency bailout to keep a few planes aloft.

  My first meeting would be with Dr. Frank Buchannan, the guy in charge of the spray bottle investigation at the Centers for Disease Control. Buchannan asked to see me. I didn’t think he sounded excited when I spoke to him, but my experience with scientific types is that they don’t like to show emotion until they’ve solved something. I’d then meet with Barbara Auletta, the new Director of the FBI, my boss and friend.

  ***

  “Rick, good to see you. Please have a seat.”

  “Do you have any good news for me, Frank?”

  “Yes and no.”

  Why the fuck do scientists have to be so cagey when answering a simple question?

  “Let me rephrase my question, Frank. Do you have any solid information on the substance from examining the spray bottle?”

  “Yes, we do. Whoever put this together was pretty sophisticated. The odd thing is that the substance itself isn’t complicated. We’ve isolated three primary ingredients, and we have the amount of each. What we don’t know, and are having a hard time figuring out, is how the substance could possibly result in The Syndrome.”

  “What?” I said. “You’ve isolated the ingredients and determined the amounts, so what’s the problem?”

  “We’ve been experimenting with laboratory rats, of course. We can’t, I’m sure you understand, use a human being as a subject. But we’re a lot closer to an answer than we were before we got hold of that bottle.”

  “Frank, suppose, just suppose, that you could meet the guy who invented the substance. Just suppose, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “Rick, assuming you have access to such a person, and further assuming that he tells the truth, that would put us over the goal line.”

  “Describe the goal line, Frank. Do we score if we find a preventive vaccine, or is the goal line a cure for the illness once it takes effect?”

  “Rick, I don’t want to raise any false hopes, especially with you, a guy who’s been hi
t with this tragedy up-close and personal. Part of any scientific inquiry is acting on hunches. We all know the breakthroughs that have been made with vaccines. The best example is the Salk vaccine that can prevent polio. It can stop it, but it can’t cure it. The same goes for other vaccines. So we’ll consider the goal line a vaccine. We cross that line and we can prevent more women from being stricken. But, Rick, don’t expect a cure, my friend. I hate to say that, but I want to be straight with you.”

  An old friend of mine, an Episcopal priest, always says that hope is the most important human emotion, the one that leads to every other positive thing in life. He said that hope is the hand of God on your shoulder. I don’t know what the outcome of all this will be, but I didn’t feel the hand of God on my shoulder after my conversation with Frank Buchannan. He doesn’t think there can be a cure.

  ***

  After my meeting with Frank Buchannan, I had lunch with Barbara Auletta in a dining room next to her office at FBI Headquarters in Washington. Barbara ate a meatball hero with a side of potato salad and a bowl of pretzels. How she remains so slim is a constant mystery to me.

  I told her about our Chechen suspect and my conversation with Buster about taking the guy in for interrogation.

  “I’ve got great news, Barb. Buster found out that Dmitri Pushkin is here illegally. We have the grounds to take him into custody. Bennie Weinberg will supervise the interrogation while the guy is under sodium pentothal.”

  “You realize, Rick, that you need corroborative evidence to back up an interrogation under sodium pentothal.”