Threat Level Black

by Jim DeFelice

  “You would have taken the call?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Yes, well, you’re an exception in many ways.”

  She pulled up a list of numbers and pointed to it. Fisher leaned over the desk to look at it; Friedrickberg wheeled her chair backward.

  “Just a lot of numbers, right?” said Fisher.

  “And streptococcus is just another bacterium.”

  Fisher straightened. “I’m guessing it’s not.”

  “Have you had your sinuses flushed lately?” Friedrickberg wheeled herself back behind the desk, closer to her bottle. “You’d be surprised what lurks in your septum.”

  “What about those numbers?”

  “Fifty-three point six percent are from Asia, primarily Japan. We’ve tracked a significant subset to American tourists and businessmen.”

  “And this has something to do with strep throat?”

  “I despair sometimes, Andy. I truly do.”

  Fisher instinctively reached for his pack of cigarettes. Friedrickberg was quicker on the draw, however: She had the bottle squared and ready to fire before he took the pack from his pocket.

  “No smoking in the building,” she intoned.

  “Yeah, I know that,” said Fisher. He twirled the pack between his fingers.

  “I’m warning you, Andy. There’s ammonia in here.”

  “So the significance of the card numbers is what?”

  “There’s an Asian connection. As a matter of fact, some of us think the real masterminds are Asian. They found these poor immigrants from Nigeria, knew they’d be willing to make some easy money, and set them up. Every few weeks they supply fresh data: credit card numbers, social security, date of birth, et cetera. The Nigerians go out and start creating a file, usually by applying for cell phones. They get it going, then sell off the cards. Sell a card for two hundred dollars, you’ve made more than a hundred percent profit.”

  “That’s all they make?”

  “The cards don’t stay active for all that long. The credit card companies tend to figure out what’s going on relatively quickly, since they’re looking for this. What you want to do is use the card to set up new accounts, keep turning everything over. A few hundred dollars a shot, ten of them a week—not a bad income.”

  “Have you figured out the others yet?” asked Fisher.

  “We’re working on it.”

  “They work with real cards?”

  “There’s always a real card at the root, if you can trace it back far enough. They probably steal the cards from the same source, then divvy them up. Probably they throw some of the new cards back once they set up accounts, rather than taking in cash, because the amounts are small.”

  “Can I get an updated list of cards?”

  “It’s hard to come by.”

  “You’re telling me you don’t trust me?”

  “We have different goals. You want to close your case. I want to close mine.”

  “Mine’s more important.”

  “That’s like saying one form of E. coli is more dangerous than another,” she said. “It depends on your perspective.”

  Fisher patted the end of his cigarette pack against his palm. Friedrickberg threatened with her spray.

  Then, completely out of character, she put it down.

  “The problem with our investigation is getting access to records,” she said. “As soon as most people see false charges on there, they report it and the credit card company gets involved. The people who have the cards stop using them. They’re afraid of the mess involved in untangling their credit records.”

  “That’s tough?”

  “It’s a real pain in the ass, especially once these people get involved. They do dozens of cards with all sorts of aliases and accounts. Just tracking them is difficult. We’ve tried using phony cards,” added Martha. “But we think someone inside the credit card companies must be involved, because the phonies never go anywhere. If we just had the right circumstances, we could set up a sting and unravel this thing.”

  “I’m too busy to go to Japan right now,” Fisher said.

  “You don’t have to. Just your credit cards.”

  Reluctantly, Fisher reached for his wallet.

  Chapter

  8

  The new chairman of the board of NADT’s board of directors was a former vice president of the United States, now semiretired but still a major player inside the Beltway. Richard Nelson had a strong handshake and a confident manner, and he put Howe completely at ease when they finally met to discuss the job. Nelson had an office on K Street. There was a private club on the second floor of the building. He led Howe there via a private elevator; they sequestered themselves in a corner of the large room, alone except for Nelson’s bodyguard, who stood a respectful distance away across the room.

  “It’s a ridiculously important job,” said Nelson. “It’s the equivalent of an undersecretary of defense, at the very least. And you’re the best man for it.”

  “I hope so,” said Howe.

  “Well, I’m sure of it. So is the board of directors.”

  “I was told there might be questions about what happened in Korea,” said Howe. McIntyre had advised him to take the problem head-on, a strategy Howe himself favored.

  “None. The CIA and the FBI were the ones who were flummoxed, not you. The attempt on your life the other day proves it. Was your lady friend hurt?”

  “She’s not, uh, my girlfriend,” said Howe. He winced a little. “She was just a real estate agent who had been showing me houses. The thugs got the wrong idea.”

  Nelson shook his head. “Thank God nothing happened to her.”

  “So what happens now? The board takes a vote?”

  “They’ve already voted,” said Nelson. “It was unanimous. You have the job—assuming you and I can come to terms.”

  Chapter

  9

  On Wednesday morning, Mr. Brown’s home aide showed up bright-eyed if not bushy-tailed at precisely nine A.M. The two state troopers had been reassigned to help the Secret Service on the psycho beat for the President’s visit next week, so Fisher took the surveillance himself, huddling in a peeper-type raincoat on the corner opposite the main entrance. He had a paper bag around a beer can for camouflage; he’d poured out the beer and replaced it with coffee. This made it a little sweeter than he liked, but then, surveillance was all about weathering discomforts.

  Fisher had put motion detectors with wireless alerts in the hallways so he could move around a bit and not have to stare at the place the whole time. He could see the stairway down to Mr. Brown’s apartment with the help of a curved mirror in the lobby, but he had to stand directly across from the doorway to see it through the glass.

  An hour passed, then two. Fisher went and bought another beer and another coffee at the store.

  “Your liver’s not going to know if it’s coming or going,” said the clerk in Spanish.

  “It doesn’t now,” answered Fisher.

  Mr. Brown and his aide returned a little past one. With no other lead, Fisher followed the aide to a bar two blocks away, where the young man had a Bud Lite before reporting to another assignment. Since the city council had not yet gotten around to outlawing lite beer, Fisher had to leave him be.

  He was heading back toward Mr. Brown’s when his sat phone rang. Worried that it was Macklin trying to hook him into the psycho watch, he checked the number before answering.

  “Hey, Martha, how’s my credit card doing?” he said, hitting the Talk button.

  “Looks like you just bought a couch in Peoria.”

  “Great,” said Fisher.

  “It’s a start, Andy,” said Friedrickberg. “You’ll move on to big-screen TVs by the end of the day, I promise.”

  “Bureau’s going to reimburse me, right?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it. You can always declare bankruptcy.”

  “Sounds promising.”

  “Listen, I did a little checking on your b
ehalf, into your case.”

  “And?”

  “I have a list of the regular customers. They’re just mailing addresses for the most part: boxes. I can send it, but only to you.”

  “Let’s save some time,” said Fisher. “Which one is in Inwood? Nagle Avenue?”

  “Jesus, Andy, how did you know?”

  It was in Mr. Brown’s building, two floors up.

  Despite the fact that Fisher warned them the apartment would be empty, Macklin and the U.S. attorney who had obtained the search warrant insisted on joining Fisher, the two NYPD plainclothes detectives, the six uniform patrolmen, and the postal inspector on the raid. It was the postal inspector Fisher really wanted, since he figured the apartment was being used primarily as a mail drop. There was an oversize box in the lobby; the mailman said it usually accumulated nearly a month’s worth of junk mail before being emptied.

  Today it held only a week’s worth, judging from the dates on the circulars and the thin community newspaper. There were no credit cards, a fact that bothered the federal attorney greatly since they had relied heavily on the cards for the search warrant.

  The second-floor apartment itself was completely empty, without even furniture; if Faud Daraghmeh had stayed there, he had removed all traces of himself.

  “I’ll give him one thing,” said Macklin. “He’s a tidy son of a bitch. Assuming he was here.”

  “Let’s talk to Mr. Brown and see if he’ll let us look in his place,” said Fisher.

  “On what grounds?” asked the attorney.

  “On the grounds that he’s a nice guy with nothing to hide.”

  “You’re really stretching it,” said Macklin.

  Brown was a nice guy, but the search of his apartment turned up nothing. When Fisher suggested chemical detection gear, the U.S. attorney left the apartment shaking his head. Macklin sighed and followed, as did the policemen. Fisher sat down with Mr. Brown and had a beer, which tasted a little funny without coffee in it.

  “Tough day, huh?” asked the blind man.

  “They’re all tough.”

  “Tell me about it. But at least you got that door unstuck for me. I appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Fisher. “Here’s a question for you: Why would someone who lived in Inwood want a copy of a community newspaper from Chelsea?”

  “See how the other half lives,” said Brown. He found this funny and laughed.

  Fisher sipped his beer.

  “Or he used to live there,” said Brown.

  Fisher jumped up. “Thanks for the beer.”

  “You leavin’?”

  “Gotta go find the newspaper office,” said Fisher.

  Chapter

  10

  Three of the apartments listed in the Gazette had been rented, one by a woman and the other two by young men. Fisher concentrated on the men first, spending a good deal of Thursday and much of Friday morning ruling them out as Faud Daraghmeh.

  This would have been relatively easy had he been able to see them at any point; the first renter turned out to be a six six weight lifter from Wisconsin seeking fame and fortune as an actor in New York. The other was a Buddhist monk, shaved head and all.

  Which left, at least as far as this straw was concerned, the woman. The landlord hadn’t given Fisher a name, and in fact had just rudely hung up when Fisher tried to get more details. Fisher went over to the apartment two blocks south of the Fashion Institute and realized that he should have come here first: The name taped on the mailbox was Fama Ahmed Ali. The apartment was on the third floor of a large building; there was no way for one person to watch it without camping directly outside the door, where he could be seen.

  “No stakeout,” said Macklin. “We don’t have the personnel.”

  “You can’t get NYPD to do it?”

  “They have their hands full. Not only do they have the Final Four, but there’s a big session going on at the UN right through the weekend. The President’s coming up Monday. This is huge, even for New York.”

  “Get me a search warrant, then.”

  “A search warrant?”

  “If I go knocking on the door and it is Faud Daraghmeh or his sister or whatever, they’ll start flushing the evidence as soon as I leave.”

  “We’re not even close to reasonable grounds here, Andy.”

  “You’re telling me in all New York City, there’s not one judge who’d give you a search warrant?”

  “Jeez.”

  “What if we got an anonymous tip that Fama Ahmed Ali was plotting to kill the President.”

  “You can’t do that, Andy! Christ.”

  “Just asking a theoretical question.”

  “I’ll see if I can get a warrant. Don’t call in a threat. Don’t. Don’t.”

  “Now, would I do that?”

  A set of stairs sat at the end of the hallway on the third floor. Fisher had propped open one of the heavy glass and wrought-iron doors, which let him hear but not see what was happening in the hallway; he came down the steps a few times as the elevator stopped on the floor, but in the three hours he spent there, no one went in or out of the apartment. Finally, Macklin called: He’d managed to get the search warrant and even two NYPD officers to help in the search.

  “Just two?” said Fisher, leaning back on the staircase. The steps were made of marble, though at some point someone had painted them with a very thick paint, then recoated them for good measure. The paint had peeled back to the sides of the steps but was still fairly thick on the risers. This seemed to be some object lesson in fashion, pretension, and perhaps utility, though Fisher couldn’t quite figure what it was.

  “Is there someone inside the apartment?” Macklin asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Fisher. He glanced at his watch; it was nearly five. “Not much use hanging around, though. Let’s hit the place now.”

  Macklin couldn’t get into the city until seven, and so they set up the raid for seven forty-five.

  Raid was a bit of an overstatement. With the two cops guarding the fire escape and Macklin and another Homeland Security agent behind him, Fisher banged on the door and told the occupants to open up. When no one answered, he used the key supplied by the landlord’s rental agent, pushing the door open.

  He jumped back just in time: A homemade bomb exploded in the interior of the hallway, sending shrapnel flying through the apartment.

  Chapter

  11

  “I need to find a place to live,” Howe told her.

  “There are hundreds of real estate agents in this area.”

  “Yeah, but you already know what I want.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yeah.”

  She sat back in her seat, then pulled the keys from the corner of her desk.

  Howe followed her out to the lot. He pulled his seat belt on, watching her silently.

  “There’s a good condo development two miles from the highway. It’s solid, not too fancy.”

  “Show me that house again, the one you liked.”

  Her faced reddened but she said nothing. As she pulled up near it, he saw there were two cars in the driveway; another Realtor was showing the place.

  “So, why did you get mad at me the other night?” he asked as she turned off the car.

  “I wasn’t mad. At first. Then I got mad.”

  “Because I drink beer with spaghetti.”

  “No. Because…I don’t know. You took it for granted.”

  “What?”

  “Kissing me like that.”

  “Kissing you? I thought after what we’d been through that—”

  “That what?”

  What had he thought? That he liked her, that he owed her, that he wanted her.

  But he seemed unable to say any of those things.

  “I didn’t mean it as a bad thing,” Howe told her.

  She put her car in gear and pulled away from the curb.

  “Where are you going?”

  “This isn’t your kind of hou
se. You think it’s too fancy.”

  “Yeah, but you like it.”

  “You’re the one who’s buying. Or renting. Which one is it?”

  “I can buy,” said Howe. “They made a ridiculous offer and I took the job yesterday.”

  “You don’t think you deserve it, do you?”

  “No, I don’t,” he said.

  “Well, you do.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You just do.” She turned the car around the circle at the end of the cul-de-sac. As they started back up the hill, the people were coming out of the house.

  “Let’s go take a look again,” said Howe. “What the hell? You like showing it, and I’m not doing anything.”

  She didn’t smile, but the way she turned her head told him somehow she would stop.

  Chapter

  12

  Fisher sat with the bomb squad people as they sent a small robot rover into the apartment to look for more bombs. The rover looked a bit like a Martian lander, and the photos it sent back to the laptop were every bit as sketchy. The herring-bone-pattern linoleum drove the automated video controls nuts, and the operators had a hard time making sure there were no more trip wires or similar devices in place. But at least the man at the laptop was free with his Camels.

  The bomb squad moved in with full-gear even after the rover’s search came up empty. Fisher gave them a few minutes, then went inside.

  “You shouldn’t be in here,” said one of the officers in a mattress suit near the door.

  “If it hasn’t gone boom yet, it’s not going to,” said Fisher, squatting down to examine the doorway. At the bottom was a set of connectors similar to those used in a simple burglar alarm system. Opening the door had broken the connection and set off the bomb. Fisher followed the wire down the scarred hallway to where the bomb had exploded.

  “How did you know there was a bomb in there?” asked the NYPD expert who was taking measurements with a laser ruler in the hall.

  “I didn’t. I saw the connector thing and I jumped back,” said Fisher.

  “You’re lucky the guy was an amateur: Somebody who knew what they were doing would have set it to explode closer to the door or even out in the lobby. Between the heavy door and the shape of the hall, most of the explosion was channeled away from you. Otherwise you would have been nailed.”