by Jeff Siebold
“Good. OK, I’ll set it up. Plan to meet with him before your trip to Phoenix.”
“Will do,” said Zeke.
* * *
“How would this work?” asked Deputy Director Clark Hall. Zeke and Clive were in the Department of Homeland Security offices in Washington, D.C., discussing Special Agent in Charge Jorge Ramirez. In addition to the three of them, a young man of about twenty-five sat at the table, writing furiously on a legal pad.
“Clark,” said Clive, “I’d rather we didn’t, eh, air the dirty linen, if you know what I mean.”
“You want to speak privately?” Hall asked. “Sure.” He turned to the young man and said, “Robert, please excuse us.”
Robert paused and looked around the room. Then he slipped his pen in his shirt pocket and took his pad and left the room. In a moment, only the three men remained in Clark Hall’s office.
Hall looked at Clive and then at Zeke. “My question stands.”
“Is your office swept for listening devices regularly?” asked Zeke.
“It is,” said Hall. “It was checked again last night.”
“Outstanding,” said Clive. “We need to draw Ramirez into a situation that will force his hand. Something that will cause him to feel an urgency to contact Benito Diaz and communicate with him, tip him off.” Clive paused. “And we’ll need to monitor that communication.”
“I’ll authorize it, if you have a method for monitoring,” said Clark.
Clive nodded. “Our people can set that up.”
Zeke said, “Here’s the play. We’ll let Ramirez know that you asked us to look into the assassination attempt, to interview the Mara killers.”
Clark Hall nodded.
“The last time I tried to do that, Ramirez told me there was no use trying, nothing to be gained. He said they’d tried and couldn’t get the MS-13’s to say anything,” said Zeke. “He was pushing hard, and so I gave in, told him I agreed. And when I did, a small smile crossed his face. Very quickly. That happens when a liar thinks his lies have been accepted as truth. Happens more often than you’d think, sort of a sigh of relief.”
Clark Hall nodded again.
“So when we reopen the matter, Ramirez will not only lose face with Diaz for not controlling the situation, but he’ll also feel the threat of our interviews with the Mara’s actually resulting in some useful data. It should push him around a bit,” said Zeke.
“His first play will probably be to contact you, Clark, and tell you we don’t need to do this, that he has it all under control,” said Clive. “But you keep the pressure on. And call him away from the Phoenix office. Maybe a meeting in D.C.”
“Then we’ll conduct the interviews with the Mara’s without Ramirez in the room, so he’ll be wondering what we’ve uncovered. He’ll have to talk with Diaz, to let him know about these changes,” said Zeke.
“And when he does, we’ll have him,” said Clark Hall. “When do you want to start?”
* * *
“I can’t leave right now, boss,” said Jorge Ramirez. “We’ve got too much going on.”
Clark Hall, on the other end of the phone line, said, “It’s not optional, Jorge.”
“But a training seminar? Where does that fall in the levels of priority? I’ve got a team to run.”
“Sorry, Jorge, this is mandatory for all personnel. Plan on coming to D.C. tomorrow. The seminar will be in our offices in two days,” said Clark Hall. “It’s important.”
Ramirez tried to wiggle. “We’re very close to cracking the human trafficking thing here, boss,” he said. “Can I take a raincheck?”
“Just plan to be here, Jorge. I’ll see you when you get in.”
“OK,” said Jorge.
“Incidentally, I’ve asked Zeke Traynor to interview some of the prisoners in Phoenix. The guys that took a shot at him in your parking lot,” said Clark Hall.
“Boss, no, there’s nothing we’ll get from them. I’ve had my best people on it, and the Mara’s won’t talk. They just look at us from across the table.”
Clark Hall said, “Zeke’s a trained interrogator, and he’s not employed by us. He may be able to push some buttons that you can’t.”
Ramirez was quiet for a moment.
“So, set it up, and head this way. I’ll put you on my schedule here tomorrow afternoon, we can talk more then.”
* * *
The ICE agent shook his head.
“No, man, I don’t see any clearance for you to interview the prisoners.”
He was a tall, broad shouldered man in his early thirties with hair graying around his ears. He wore it in an FBI-style haircut, held in place with too much gel. His gaze was steady and unblinking.
“We’ve gotten approval from your Director,” said Zeke in a conversational tone. “Clark Hall.”
* * *
Zeke looked through the plexiglass at the short, brown man. He was dressed in a gray shirt somewhat reminiscent of medical scrubs with his white t-shirt visible at the collar. He was sitting at the small desk space in the visitors section of the FCI, the Federal Correctional Institution in Phoenix. Behind the man was a guard dressed in a green uniform and sitting in a plastic chair against a concrete block wall.
“Hola,” said Zeke in Spanish. “I’m here to ask you some questions.”
The man frowned and sat, silent.
“My name’s Zeke. Zeke Traynor,” he said with a smile. “You’re Rolando Acosta.”
The man looked at Zeke, then turned and looked at the guard. He turned back to Zeke and shrugged.
He was in his late twenties, with short black hair and a blocky, almost square head. He was clean-shaven except for a small patch of beard beneath his wide lower lip. The right side of his face, curling up from the back of his neck, was a canvas upon which a series of complex and colorful drawings had been tattooed. There was a prominent M and an S, one on each cheek, in Old English style lettering. Beside the S were the numbers 1 and 3, but smaller and arranged vertically. His neck and upper chest, where visible, were covered in inked designs. The skin around his eyes was tattooed black, giving him an almost zombie look.
Tats are so hard on your liver, thought Zeke. He waited.
“You tried to kill me and my partner,” Zeke said.
Rolando Acosta looked indifferent.
“You underestimated us,” said Zeke. “Subestimado.”
The man said nothing.
“Who sent you to kill us?” asked Zeke.
“No, man, we weren’t there to kill you. If we were, you’d be dead.”
“Then what?” asked Zeke.
“We were there to kidnap you. You and the girl,” he said.
“By whom?” asked Zeke.
“I don’t know,” said Rolando. “The guy who was in charge is dead now.”
“The guy carrying one of the rifles?” asked Zeke. “He was the boss?”
Rolando nodded.
“You know that you can make it easier on yourself, right?” asked Zeke.
The man looked away.
“Right now, you’re looking at maybe twenty years in prison,” said Zeke. “Twenty years away from your family.”
“My family is MS-13. My family is everywhere. Including in prison.”
* * *
The man sat in the chair that Rolando Acosta had vacated moments before. The guard, on the other side of the plexiglass from Zeke, signaled with a nod and returned to his chair against the back wall. He looked bored.
“Ernesto Reyes,” said Zeke in Spanish. “It looks like they did a good job reattaching your nose.”
Reyes, wearing the same gray prison clothing as Rolando Acosta looked at Zeke with cold eyes.
“It’s all fair,” said Zeke. “You tried to kill me. I just tore your nose.”
The man shook his head. “No, not to kill you.”
“Then what?” asked Zeke.
“We were told to take you, to bring you to a warehouse by Phoenix.”
He’s telling the
truth, Zeke thought. “Whose orders?” he asked.
The man shook his head.
“Think about it, Ernesto. We have four of you here. Somebody is going to tell the story in return for a reduced sentence, right?”
Ernesto sat silent.
“How well do you know the other MS-13 guys? You trust them with your life? With the rest of your life?” asked Zeke. “Or are they pretty much focused on themselves?”
* * *
“Any luck?” asked Clive Greene. Zeke had called him from Phoenix to report the results of his interviews with the Mara’s.
“I think we planted some seeds,” said Zeke. “It may take a little time for them to germinate.”
Clive said nothing.
“I did discover something curious though,” said Zeke.
“Which is…” asked Clive.
“The attempt on us in the ICE parking lot here in Phoenix, a couple of the Mara’s told me their intention was to kidnap us and take us to a warehouse here. Not to kill us.”
“Any idea why?” asked Clive.
“I don’t,” said Zeke. “And I don’t think they know, either. But they were telling the truth about that.”
“Hmm,” said Clive. “Alright, what’s your next move?”
“I’ll interview the other two here. Then I think it’s time to give Jobare Worthington a little push. Before the FBI gets around to him.”
“Very well. Enjoy Boston,” said Clive.
Chapter 18
“Now, what’s this about?” asked Jobare Worthington. He was sitting behind his desk, a large wooden table topped with a rich, dark stain. His chair was a brown leather Paris club chair.
That’s not standard furniture for a college office, thought Zeke. He said, simply, “Someone’s stealing your students’ loan money.”
Jobare Worthington’s theatrical face tried several expressions before he landed on amusement.
He said, “And this is interesting to me because…?”
He was a tall, thin man with a gray ponytail that contrasted poorly with his large nose. His overall look was that of a circus clown, lacking only the white face paint.
Zeke looked across the desk at him and said, “I think you’re involved.”
Jobare Worthington waited for a moment, then he said, “Surely you don’t think that I would be involved in something like that!”
He’s going for outrage, now, thought Zeke. He waited.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he continued, working himself up toward anger. “This is, well, outrageous.”
“I’m deadly serious about this, Jobare,” said Zeke, using his first name to further upset the academic. “There’s a lot of money missing.”
“What does that have to do with me?” asked Worthington, whining. “Why are you asking me about this?”
“Your fingerprints are all over it, Jobare,” said Zeke, not giving an inch. “We’ve studied the files. Sarah Helms, ADD Styles’ staffer and I have gone over it all.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the academic. “And I won’t sit here and listen to this any longer.”
“The FBI has Paul Richardson in custody,” said Zeke. “He’s named you as complicit.”
“I highly doubt that,” said Worthington in his high, almost feminine voice. He choked on what was probably intended as a small, sarcastic laugh.
He’s uncertain, thought Zeke.
Jobare rose and walked to the door. “You can show yourself out,” he said, and he left the room.
* * *
Outside on the campus green, Jobare Worthington was less confident than he looked. He was thinking about the Boston mob and how unhappy they would be with him and with Paul Richardson, now that the student loan scam was starting to unravel.
Damn Freddy Hanson, anyway, he thought. If he’d had the auditor taken care of in the beginning, when Jobare had first told him about it, none of this would be happening. But now, with Paul in jail, things had taken a turn for the worse. A bad turn for Jobare Worthington.
Worthington knew Paul and knew that he had a weak constitution. He rattled easily and would roll over on Jobare several times before he would go to prison for the scam. Hell, he’s probably cutting a deal with the prosecutor right now, he thought.
He dialed his cell phone.
“Yes?” said the voice.
“I need to talk with your boss,” said Jobare, simply. “No names.”
“Hold on, then,” said Roy Calhoun. He turned to Freddy Hanson, who was counting a stack of money and handed him the phone.
Hanson said, “Who’s this?”
“The professor,” said Calhoun. “You can tell by his voice.”
Hanson nodded, made a note, and said into the phone, “Yeah?”
“We’ve gotta do something more,” said Jobare. “That auditor was just in my office.”
“What did you tell him?” asked Hanson.
“Nothing. But it seems that Paul Richardson may have. He knows a lot about the loan thing.”
“Will he talk?” asked Freddy Hanson.
“No. I don’t know,” said Jobare Worthington. “I can’t say. He has a lot to lose.” His voice whined a bit.
The leaves of the Cambridge maple trees were mostly brown and red now, and the air felt as crisp as Freddy Hanson’s voice.
“Is he fishing? The auditor?” asked Hanson.
“No, he seems to know some of it.”
“Then we can’t risk it,” said Hanson. “Richardson was a fool to get caught. We’ll take care of this.”
Jobare Worthington stared at a maple tree and said, “What do you mean?”
Hanson said, “Don’t worry about it. Just do your job.”
“OK,” said Jobare. “And the girl in D.C., the one running the investigation from the ED office.”
“Yes?”
“She needs to go, too. Sarah Helms.”
“I think that’s being taken care of,” said Freddy Hanson. “But I’ll check.”
“OK, but hurry,” said Jobare.
The phone went dead.
* * *
Clive Greene said, “The FBI said Richardson is, ah, sharing a lot with them.”
Zeke smiled. He’s pretty much a weak link,” he said.
“How did you know? His ego?” asked Clive.
Zeke nodded. “Plus, the situation he’s in now is way outside of his comfort zone. Way outside of anything he’s experienced before.”
Clive nodded. “He’s given up Jobare Worthington about a dozen times, so far,” said Clive. “He’s naming Worthington as the ring leader for the Student Loan scam.”
“No,” said Zeke, shaking his head. “Worthington doesn’t have enough scope, enough power and resources to pull this off. He’s somewhere in the middle, I’d guess. Moving the money around for the brain trust. Maybe recruiting students or monitoring the process.”
Clive thought for a moment. “OK,” he said.
“There’s one thing I am worried about,” said Zeke.
“What’s that?”
“I’m worried about Sarah Helms’ safety. If they tried to take me out in Cambridge because of my audit, it wouldn’t be a big leap to think they might do the same with the lead investigator. The one who initiated all of this.”
“How would they know about her?” asked Clive.
“Not hard to figure,” said Zeke. “An operation that sophisticated must have huge resources. And the leadership—not Worthington but the leadership up the line—must have contacts with the ED. Or possibly spies within the department.”
“I can see that,” said Clive. “For the leadership, getting her out of the way would defuse the investigation, I suppose.”
“It could,” said Zeke. “I think I’ll visit with her and her team in D.C.”
* * *
“Has there been any, ah, relief? Changes for the better, I’m hoping,” Holmes asked.
The three men were sitting comfortably in Baron Holmes private c
lub on antique Louis XV gilt fauteuil chairs, their frames colored in a gaudy gold leaf with vines and roses stitched busily into the fabric. Baron’s bodyguard, a tall man in a black suit, stood a discrete distance from the men.
“No, not to speak of,” said Stuart Williams III. “Things haven’t really changed since we last met.”
Baron Holmes nodded sagely.
The room was a dark library with small, quiet alcoves and sitting nooks that assured privacy for the most sensitive discussions. Men dressed in tuxedos stood discreetly by to accommodate any request from the club members.
“There will be another effort, I assume,” said Milo Christianson.
“That’s what I’ve been told,” said Williams. “They’ve done some research into the auditors,” he continued. “Seems the request originated from the Director’s office.”
“You mean,” said Christianson, “the Department of Education? Cabinet level?”
“It seems so,” Williams repeated.
“Is your source credible?” asked Holmes.
Williams nodded. “They’ve invited an outside firm to do the audit,” he said. “But not accountants. They’ve hired Clive Greene’s group, ‘The Agency.’ They’re troubleshooters.”
“I’ve heard of them,” said Holmes. “They seem to be a formidable group.”
“Yes. Well, the effort in Cambridge was directed against one of their operatives, not a Department employee.”
“Yes?” asked Christianson.
“We’ll still need to deal with the threat, then,” said Holmes. “We need to. There’s too much in play right now.”
He was speaking of both the money, millions of dollars in student loans in various stages of the scam, as well as the sheer volume of public loan documents already processed and vulnerable to scrutiny by government review.
“We’ll continue on this path,” said Williams. “And now we’ll also need to deal with the threat from the Director’s office.”
* * *
