by Dick Wolf
Kiser said, “The only other charge on the Visa prepay was a rental car picked up on the twenty-third and never returned. Surprised they haven’t found that yet.”
“It’s not a priority,” said Fisk. “Most rental companies would prefer the insurance money to the return of another beater with twenty thousand miles on the odometer.”
“I’d like to push this a little further,” Kiser said. “You think you could help me out? I know you Intel detectives have deep contacts. Maybe you can even do it yourselves. And a lot faster than I can.”
Fisk said, “What are you thinking?”
“Airport surveillance photos for those dates. Maybe a few dates on either side also. If you think your Hummingbird man might have come into the United States the same way.”
“It’s a good bet.” This guy had shown he was more than willing to kill those around him to preserve his anonymity. Chuparosa guarded his secrets ruthlessly. But at the same time, his circle was drawing ever smaller and smaller. It didn’t make sense.
Fisk told him he would get into it with the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. “No promises, but I’ll keep you in the loop.”
“Do that,” said Kiser. “And again—thank Ms. Garza when you see her.”
“Uh . . . yeah.”
Fisk hung up. He wrote up a memo with the dead men’s names and a request that they be searched for on Montreal-Trudeau’s CCTV system via the CSIS.
Then he checked his e-mail and text messages again, looking for at least a CC on the No Fly List discovery Garza had forwarded to Kiser.
There was none.
CHAPTER 38
Having no messages from Garza at all angered Fisk, both professionally and personally. That was when his phone rang. An unfamiliar number, though he recognized the exchange. Somebody from the U.S. Attorney’s office. Probably the same guy who’d e-mailed him twice already. He listened to it ring, thinking about pressing the red circle that would kick it to his voice mail . . . but he knew how U.S. attorneys were. This guy would call again and again.
Instead, Fisk thumbed the green button on his cell.
“Fisk.”
“Hi, Detective Fisk? Kevin Leary, U.S. Attorney’s office. How are you?”
“Super busy. What can I do for you that won’t take more than one minute?”
“Oh. Um . . . look, I don’t know if you got my e-mail . . . ?”
“I have not, no.”
“Okay, sir, well, here’s the thing. I’m looking at Case Number S Dash Seven Six Four One Three? Exhibit Number Three One One Nine? Anyway, Detective, the thing is it weighed out at a one hundred and thirty-nine point two five three grams. And it weighed in at one hundred and thirty-nine point two five one grams.”
“Is this supposed to mean something to me?” asked Fisk.
“It’s the polonium,” said Leary. “From the smoky-bomb case. You didn’t see the subject line of my e-mails?”
The prosecutor was starting to get that I’m getting irritated because I’m smarter and more important than you tone in his voice. This was always Fisk’s cue to start stalling, just on principle.
“No,” said Fisk, trying to find a way out of this.
“The evidence sheet has a weigh-in and a weigh-out line.”
“I gather that. I’m sure you must have a question, Kevin. I just haven’t heard it yet.”
Leary said, “The weight change is a problem.”
“The point zero zero two grams?”
“The defense has filed a brief about there being less polonium-210 than when originally booked into evidence. This is your case.”
“It is my case. But I’m not responsible for the evidence handling. When I left it, it was in a sealed steel container inside a sealed evidence envelope.”
“Where do you think it went, then?”
“The point zero zero two grams? Are you sure you calibrated the machine correctly? What is that, half a grain of salt?”
“Detective, the defense is trying to exclude the evidence by claiming evidence tampering. If we don’t have the evidence, we have no case.”
Fisk said, “Was the evidence envelope still sealed?”
Leary said, “No, the envelope was not still sealed. Defense had to open it to weight it.”
“Was the steel container still sealed?”
“Is that a trick question?” asked Leary. “I assume it was, they didn’t say otherwise.”
“Well, then?” said Fisk.
“I don’t know,” said Leary. “Can those envelopes be duplicated?”
“I doubt it,” said Fisk. “But you should pursue that with someone responsible for handling said evidence. For example, the defense.”
Leary sighed. “You see, this is the sort of thing that brings down otherwise ironclad cases. A little bit of doubt in the jury’s mind . . .”
“. . . and O. J. Simpson goes free, I get it. Why don’t you reweigh it yourself? Maybe the mistake is on their end.”
“I did reweigh it. Pain in the ass. It says one thirty-nine point two five one grams. That’s pretty damn exact.”
“Kevin, no offense,” said Fisk. “But this doesn’t seem like my problem.”
“Your signature is next to the larger amount, so it is potentially your problem. I weighed the evidence on a scale called a Lyman Micro-Touch 1500. It’s intended for weighing bullets. Because normally bullets are the only evidence that small that needs to be weighed with any degree of accuracy, it happened to be the only scale in the evidence lockup that weighs in fractions of grams. Now the thing about the Lyman 1500 is that if it’s been out of service for a while, you have to let it warm up for up to twenty-four hours before it stabilizes for final calibration. Up to that point, it varies by a couple of thousandths in either direction. That gives a potential range for error of point zero zero five grams, top to bottom.”
“Okay, so, there we go.”
“This is all lawyer talk I’m doing now. This is how we’ll have to counter this. The machine’s accuracy is affected if you don’t have time to warm it up for twenty-four hours and then calibrate it.”
Fisk said, “I didn’t weight it in myself. I did sign for it.”
“Okay,” said Leary.
“In lawyer speak,” said Fisk, “no matter what kind of scale you use, there will always be some level of error. So the only scientifically supportable approach is to round the observed figure to a reasonable, scientifically supportable number based on the published accuracy of the machine.”
“One hundred and thirty-nine . . . uh . . .”
“One hundred and thirty-nine point two five grams, correct.”
“But still . . . if it says in your logbook—”
“The logbook will not be entered into evidence,” said Fisk. “Here’s what you do. You put a little footnote in the filing that says, quote, ‘All exhibit weights expressed to published limits of machine accuracy.’ That’s a scientific term that you can look up in any manual of bench chemistry. If it ever comes up—and it won’t—but if it does . . . then I’ll have to get on the stand and explain that I’ve taken all these courses in evidence handling and scientific measurement and blah blah blah, and that scales have inherent levels of inaccuracy, that they have to warm up, calibration, blah blah blah, and that’s why we round the number to one thirty-nine point two five, that this number is the scientifically correct number despite the fact that the machine has a higher level of recordable and observable resolution.”
The line was silent.
“Kevin. A hundred and thirty-nine point two five grams.”
Leary said, “Okay.”
“I should not have to be telling you how to do this. Okay? This is stuff you’re supposed to know.”
Leary said, “Okay. I’ll get back to you.”
Fisk said, “No rush,” and hung up.
He darkened the screen and sat there a while, looking at his phone.
CHAPTER 39
Secret Service agent Dukes said, “Fisk, I only have
a minute.”
“It’s the Mexican president’s itinerary. There’s one blocked-out period of time that isn’t accounted for.”
“Okay.”
“That doesn’t concern you?” asked Fisk.
“It might if I didn’t know what it was.”
“So you do know what it is.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Fisk waited a breath. “So what is it?”
“Some things I’m not allowed to share, Fisk. Even with a friend. That’s my job.”
“Not even if it might affect your job. That is, protecting visiting heads of state.”
“If I knew there was an immediate need to know, maybe. Why not ask your girlfriend?”
Fisk winced. “That’s funny.”
“It’s smart. I’d help her out if I could, too. And if I wasn’t otherwise married.”
Fisk scowled. He was tired of this. “What time is the restaurant walk-through?”
CHAPTER 40
The Waldorf was fully occupied,” said President Vargas, watching his bags being unpacked on the seventh floor of the Sheraton. “I guess I’ll make do.”
He seemed to regret the attempt at humor almost as soon as he uttered it.
“I didn’t know the man well,” he said. “But I know he was your personal hire.”
Garza nodded, wanting to move past this. “It is a terrible loss. Do you understand my concerns now?”
“I have understood them from the beginning,” said the president. “But I cannot see any way to curtail my activities here.”
“The festival for Independence Day,” said Garza. “That has to be left off the schedule.”
Vargas stopped, sitting down on his bed. “This visit is where we set the tone for my entire administration. I understand that the treaty has angered the cartels. That is its purpose, in large part.”
Garza said, tamping down her impatience, “This is not a cartel. This is a lone assassin. I am sure of it.”
Vargas clapped his hands once. “Who is dead set on making an example of me? If you know he is here, and know his intent, is it not that much easier to forestall him?”
“Not this man. He is killing everyone who has aided him in coming here. I believe there is no way to deter him from his goal.”
Vargas said, “I have not known you well for many years now. But your reputation is such that I would think you could not back down from such a challenge.”
Garza bristled at this second reference to her “reputation” in a matter of hours. “It is quite a different matter when the life of the Mexican president is at stake.”
“Granted,” he said. “Which do you want more? To save me? Or to catch this Chuparosa?”
“I want both. They go hand in hand.”
“And trust me, I have no desire to be a . . . a piece of bait. But allow me do my job, and I will allow you to do yours. Tomorrow will be a great day, signing the treaty on the anniversary of our country’s independence.” He checked his wristwatch. “Now, if you will excuse me, I am due at the UN for a meeting with the Costa Rican ambassador and I am already running late.”
CHAPTER 41
Elian Martinez was looking in the mirror, straightening his black bow tie, when he heard the door buzz.
“You expecting anyone?” he called to his wife, Kelli.
“No,” she called back.
“Guess I better get it then,” he said.
There’d been some push-in robberies in the neighborhood lately, the same guy in every case, forcing his way into women’s apartments, stealing their stuff, beating them up. Elian figured it was always better to have a male voice answer the buzzer.
He came out of the bathroom, pulling on his coat. He was going to be late for work if he didn’t get lucky with the traffic.
He pushed the button on the intercom. “Yes?”
A voice in Spanish came back, “Señor Martinez, it’s Sergeant Benividez with the Policía Federal. We’re here for the credentials inspection.”
“The what?”
“I’m sure the Secret Service informed you. We’re part of President Vargas’s advance team. We’re validating the credentials of everyone who’ll be—”
“Ah, sí, momento, momento!” He pressed the button releasing the lock down in the vestibule. He could hear the buzz of the lock mechanism right through the wall.
“What is it?” Kelli said. She spoke no Spanish. Elian was getting his Ph.D. at NYU, moonlighting as a waiter. He and Kelli had met the first day of grad school and they were both finishing up their dissertations in Econ. He could practically taste the money he’d be making on Wall Street come this time next year. But in the meantime, they were currently clipping coupons and pulling nickels out of the couch cushions, just trying to get by.
Elian said to her, “I told you about President Vargas, right?”
Kelli said, “Only about twenty times.”
“Hey, give me a break. I think it’s cool, I might be personally serving the president of Mexico.”
“Why don’t you slip him your résumé inside his oysters?”
“Ha ha. Though actually not a bad idea.”
There was a knock on the door.
Elian opened the door and let two men into the room. They were both wearing dark suits, sunglasses. A big guy and a medium-sized guy. The big guy seemed a little out of shape to be presidential security, but this was Mexico, maybe their standards were different than the United States.
“Come in, come in,” Elian said, ushering them in. “Sorry about this . . . the mess.”
The smaller man entered first, looking around. He acted very official. “We’ll make this nice and quick,” he said. “Sorry for the inconvenience. We just need to see your credential documents yet again, to log you into the database. This won’t take but a few minutes.”
Elian frowned. “The Secret Service said they were taking care of everything. Is there some reason why—”
“We have to double-check every detail,” the man said, smiling broadly. “It is a redundancy, I agree. But that is our job. Be assured, you will see us at least one more time before the event. You understand how it is.”
Elian nodded as though he did. “Sure, sure, no problem.” Elian just wanted to get it over with so he could get to work. He went back into the bedroom, pulled out the manila envelope they’d given him the other day, and carried it back into the main room. He emptied the contents onto the hall table. “Is this what you’re looking for?”
“Exactamente.”
Elian hadn’t really looked in the envelope yet. There was a plastic ID with a hologram running across his photograph, plus some kind of itinerary with a big official-looking seal on it and a letter of instruction. The big man picked up everything from the envelope, then nodded to the other man. The other man took out a small digital camera and snapped a picture of each item, front and back.
“Muy bueno,” he said, when he was finished. “Muchas gracias, my friend. Your cooperation is most appreciated.”
“De nada,” Elian said. “Is that it?”
“That is all for now, señor.”
Elian nodded, thinking, That was easy, and opened the door for the men. They departed without handshakes, walking straight to the hallway elevator.
After Elian had closed the door, and heard the elevator door open and close, he felt oddly relieved. Something about authority figures, especially such humorless ones as those, always bugged him.
“Are they gone already?” asked Kelli, coming out of the bathroom with her head tilted, sliding a small pearl earring into her right earlobe. She tended bar in a midtown hotel three nights a week and was also getting ready for work. Kelli was a beautiful woman, with porcelain skin, red hair, and very green eyes that had a skeptical expression. Even now, after he’d known her for four years, she still seemed impossibly exotic to him. “That was super quick,” she said.
“Just checking up on me, I guess,” said Elian.
“Well, wouldn’t they have cop
ies or something? Why would they need to take pictures of it?”
“He said it was just a verification process.” Elian shrugged. One thing he did know was that you didn’t get anywhere by bugging Mexican cops with a bunch of questions. He was lucky they left without demanding a bribe. Plus, beneath his grin, the shorter man gave Elian the impression that nothing would give him more pleasure than having to tune up a reluctant civilian with a nightstick. And the guy with the big gut . . . he looked even worse.
“Huh,” Kelli said.
“It’s fine,” Elian said, stealing a kiss from her. “I gotta go, baby.”
“I’m coming with,” she said.
He opened the door and slipped his arm around her narrow waist, feeling like the luckiest guy in the world. She wore a green dress that matched her eyes, tight as a glove on her slim torso. All those jerks at the hotel bar would be perving over her, hitting on her, trying to get her phone number. And every night Kelli came home to him. Him! It amazed him sometimes.
By the time he got to the bottom of the staircase, he had forgotten all about the men from the Policía Federal.
CHAPTER 42
The essence of executive protection, as performed by the Secret Service, is to examine an event and its location in excruciating detail, then to provide a plan for every contingency. Every conceivable form of attack is imagined and planned against, with backups and backups to the backups and fallback plans and worst-case scenarios. The direct ring of protection around the principal is provided by a protection detail that moves with him or her. Around that ring is a secondary layer of protection primarily composed of Secret Service agents whose position is generally stationary—but which may include special local law enforcement assets—bomb-sniffing dogs and their handlers, snipers and executive protection specialists. This ring secures the facility rather than the individual. Then around that is the largest ring of security, which is generally composed primarily of local law enforcement. This third ring is responsible for the lowest-level functions like traffic control, running metal detectors, and guarding barricades—but also includes specialty units like SWAT, air units, bomb squads, and so on.
