by Frank Hughes
That would be quite a list. Epstein's weekly rants against the construction or expansion of power stations, resorts, amusement parks, and housing developments went back over fifteen years. Oddly, links to the past eight months of articles were dead, linking only to an empty page. Maybe he was on vacation or taking the cure in Switzerland. But, why were the old links still good, while the current ones were inactive? Was some sort of ‘direct action’ about to take place? Maybe Epstein wanted to put some distance between himself and the act.
He had a particular hard on for ski resorts in the Rockies and Sierras. Boyd had mentioned his place in Colorado was at a resort called Spanish Mountain. I searched for it, getting mostly benign PR stories and offers for condo rentals. It was located in the town of Purchas, and there were two brief wire service pieces about a fire in October at a nearby resort called The Retreat at Diablo Canyon. That would have been about the time Ken disappeared, but according to the stories this fire was an accident, started by a welder’s torch and quickly extinguished.
The withdrawals of cash, the gold digging girlfriend, the mysterious environmental crusader; it all pointed towards Ken being involved with the darker side of the environmental movement. That might explain his dropping off the grid. Perhaps Jack Epstein could enlighten me, but before that, I needed to know more about him than I could learn from the Internet.
I got on the phone and changed my return flight to the following morning. Then I placed a call to the one person I knew who could help me with inside information on Epstein. That is, if she was still talking to me.
7.
At Sea-Tac the next morning, I was boarding the flight back to Newark when I heard my name announced over the public address. I asked the gate attendant to direct me to the legendary white courtesy telephone. The nearest open one turned out to be one gate over.
I picked up the receiver, which buzzed briefly.
“May I help you?”
“Nick Craig. You paged me?”
“Yes, Mr. Craig, we have an urgent call for you. Please hold.”
That surprised me. I hadn't told anyone I was taking this plane. It was probably Raviv. He was a devious bastard, and probably keeping track of me. Maybe they had something already from the hard drive, but it was not yet 11:00 AM in Brooklyn. Even if the overnight package had been delivered, would they have had time to examine it?
Time dragged and still no one came on the line. I checked my watch. Nearly five minutes had passed and I didn't want to miss that plane. Then the line clicked dead. Whatever it was couldn’t have been that urgent. I replaced the receiver and went back to my gate, where the herd had thinned. When I got to my seat there was barely enough overhead space for my carry on. I ordered a Bloody Mary and settled in.
Thanks to a brisk tailwind and the bullshit time they build into the schedule, the plane landed only thirty minutes late, not bad for that time of the year. I took the Air Train to the airport station and caught the next train to Newark, where I had arranged to meet an old friend for dinner. Karen Shultz was an FBI agent whose specialty was domestic terrorism. I was hoping she could fill me in on Mr. Epstein, but she had sounded distant and noncommittal on the phone.
When the doors opened at Newark Penn Station, I swam like a salmon through the commuters flowing onto the already crowded train. The struggle continued down the steps to the street. I was going the wrong direction for that time of day.
I went out the rear door of the station into the Ironbound District, which is one of Newark’s few bright spots, vibrant and busy. Named after the train tracks that once encircled the neighborhood, it has been a traditional jumping off place for immigrants since the nineteenth century, starting with Germans and Poles. Once each wave of newcomers made their money and educated their children, they moved on to greener pastures and the next demographic rolled in to start the process again. Today’s Ironbound has a very Latin flavor, with Portuguese speakers dominating, but the Spanish influence remains strong, particularly where cuisine is concerned. I was meeting Karen at one of my favorite restaurants, Fornos of Spain.
The sun was already down, but white Christmas lights on the lamp posts and the tree in Peter Francisco Park lent a cheery, festive air. I crossed over Ferry Street and used the bar entrance, leaving my carry on at the coat check.
My dining companion was in the largest of the ground floor dining rooms, where the tables were already filling with the usual mix of locals, politicians, and commuters. Karen knew I liked the gunfighter seat, facing the entrance, and had taken it anyway, another sign she was angry with me. We had not seen each other in many years, and there were new lines in her pleasant, big-featured face. I realized she must be well into her forties now. She had on a dark, well-tailored business suit over an open neck blouse. Her only jewelry was a gold cross on a necklace and a thin gold wedding band. She looked as harmless as your high school volleyball instructor, but I knew she could shoot the head off a match at fifteen yards with the Sig Sauer tucked behind her right hip. She was tough, smart and a good cop. There was not much left to say after that.
“Thanks for coming,” I said.
She didn't get up, so I bent down and pecked her on the cheek.
“You're lucky it was here. I can’t resist this place,” she said, coldly, as I took my seat.
“Karen, I am very happy to see you. Why the attitude?”
“That's nervy. We don't hear from you for years, and suddenly you call, out of the blue and needing a favor?”
Thankfully, at that moment, the waiter came by for a drink order. I looked at Karen.
“Pitcher of sangria?”
“To start.”
“That's my girl.” I said to the waiter, “We'll have a pitcher of the red.”
Another waiter appeared with a loaf of freshly baked bread, some butter, and a cruet of olive oil. Behind him was another server, bearing garlic bread.
“I hope you don't mind,” I said, tearing off a piece of bread. “I'm starved.”
“They don't feed you in first class anymore?”
“Didn't eat it. I knew I was coming here.” I chewed the piece of bread.
“We heard you were back in New York a few months ago,” she said, still cool. “It was nice to know you were still alive.”
“I'm sorry. I didn't think. I mean, how do you suddenly go back into your friends’ lives? Besides, I'm not sure I'm really ready.”
“Most people got over it, Nick. They got on with living.”
“I'm working on that.”
She thawed a little. “It is good to see you, though. You look well.”
“I spent a lot of time in the sun, got a lot of exercise. You'd be surprised how relaxing life is off the grid.”
“I can only imagine.” She cocked her head, looking at me appraisingly. “The gray temples are a distinguished touch.”
“Gee,” I said, with mock indignation, “have you put on weight?”
She laughed. Our lead waiter returned, stirring a plastic pitcher of iced sangria with a wooden spoon. He poured us each a glass and set the pitcher down on the table.
“Thank you,” I said to him. “I know what I’m having. Karen?”
“Oh, hell, just get me the same thing I had last time we were here, if they still have it.”
To the waiter I said, “We’ll have two Mariscada Fornos, please.”
He collected the menus and left. I looked at Karen. She was toying with her glass, looking into it.
“What's going on over there?”
“There were rumors about you,” she said.
“What sort of rumors?”
“Nothing substantial. When you suddenly resigned from Customs and disappeared, some people did some checking.”
“That's not exactly kosher.”
She smiled half-heartedly. “So we found out. One agent ended up in Omaha.”
“Ah, the dark side of the moon.”
“There were some whispers, talk of a special unit being formed, but after the pus
h back, no one speculated anymore. We assumed you went undercover.”
“You know what happens when you assume, Karen.”
She looked at me intently. “Where have you been, Nick?”
I sipped my drink. “If I told you, you wouldn't believe me.”
“Try me.”
“Well, for the past few years, I've been caddying.”
That stopped her. She looked as if she had swallowed something funny. “Say what?”
“Caddying. You know, carrying golf bags for wealthy people and helping them improve their game.”
“How? You’re a lousy golfer.”
“Why does everyone enjoy telling me that?”
“Sorry. Okay, where?”
“Florida in the winter, and up here in the spring and summer, mostly at Trump out in Bedminster.”
“And you survived at that?”
“Hey, you'd be surprised what some people will pay for a good caddy. I can read a green like nobody's business. I was in demand, baby.”
She sat back, shaking her head in amazement. “Is that how you met Raviv Peled?”
“I've caddied for him,” I said, hoping she didn’t notice I hadn't exactly answered her question.
“And now you are a PI?”
“Kind of. Raviv requires all his operatives to have the license. Something to do with bonding and liability.” I sipped a little sangria. “Lower than caddy, you think?”
She laughed. “You should come back, Nick.”
“The government?”
“Yes.”
“No way. Too much politics, not enough crime fighting.” I was ready to change the subject. “What's going on with you? You’ve got that ‘I’m off to somewhere’ look.”
She gave me a rueful glance. “Am I that easy to read?”
“I used to get that look myself sometimes.”
“I know.” She leaned in and lowered her voice a little. “Detached duty overseas. Can't say where.”
“Doing what?”
“Interrogator. Seems the jihadist bad guys are a little intimidated by women that don’t wear burkas or take any shit. Keeps them off balance.”
“And ya smell nice, too. How’s Tom feel about you trespassing on his turf?” Tom was her husband, also a special agent, but focused on external threats.
“He’s mainly concerned about getting reacquainted with his right hand while I am away.” She shook her head at the thought of the male animal and his needs. “The War on Terror inconveniences us all.” Abruptly, her face changed. “Oh God, Nick. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”
I smiled, reaching across the table to pat her hand.
“Come on, Karen. I know what you meant.”
“It’s just that we were all so worried, Nick, the way you just disappeared. All those years, no one knew whether you were dead or alive.”
“I was working some stuff out.”
She shook her head, looked down at her glass. “I miss her so much. I can only imagine how it is for you.”
“Enough,” I said, as gently as I could. I took a big swig of sangria. A waiter appeared and refilled my glass. I grinned at Karen. “See why I like this place?”
Karen took the hint. “It'll do,” she said, raising her glass.
We both drank, I think, to absent friends. Then our waiter descended upon us, presenting us with a large salad of greens and red onions, dressed with oil and vinegar and a sprinkling of coarse sea salt. Karen and I helped ourselves to generous portions.
“So why the interest in Epstein?” she said.
“It's this missing persons case I'm working on.”
While we finished our salads, I brought her up to date on everything, and my theory about Ken Boyd's possible involvement with eco-terrorism. By the time I'd finished, the waiters were clearing the salad plates and using a small metal blade to rake up the bread crumbs I'd managed to scatter everywhere.
“Seems pretty thin,” she said, when I was done.
“Anorexic, but it's all I've got. Besides, you could have told me it was thin over the phone.”
She nodded, and took a drink. Again, a waiter magically appeared and refilled it from the pitcher, which was close to empty now.
“Better get another,” she told him.
As he moved off, more servers appeared bearing two metal tureens of Mariscada, a platter of seasoned yellow rice, and a plate of homemade potato chips. I gallantly waited for Karen to spoon some rice onto her plate. Then it was my turn. I took two large spoonfuls and ladled a helping of the seafood stew over them. For the next few minutes, nothing was said as we dug into our meal.
Finally, Karen paused to refill her glass from the new pitcher. “Let's say, just two friends talking here, nothing official, but those reporters were on the right track, although it might be better to describe Epstein as a dispatcher or, I don't know, air traffic controller, rather than a mastermind.”
“How so?”
“He makes connections, passing on one group or individual to another, and always through additional cut outs. The two never meet; never even have to know who the other person is. Hell, I'm not even sure Epstein knows many of the people he works with. He earned his stripes in the anti-war movement back in the 60's and 70's, working with the SDS and Panthers. He saw the mistakes those groups made and corrected them.” She took a drink. “The KGB could learn from the way this network is organized, if you can even call it that. They aren't structured in the way we’re used to with spy networks or terrorist groups. Sometimes it’s almost dumb luck that one of these 'direct action' plots gets off the ground.”
“How does it work when it does work?”
“Epstein identifies a target, or has it identified for him by some interested party. He writes articles, ginning up the faithful. We suspect there may be actual instructions in some of the online articles. In the old days it was probably a basic code, but now we suspect he’s gotten more sophisticated, hiding information in JPEG pixels, for example, but we haven't been able to prove it. Anyway, somehow a loose collection of die hards comes together, generates a plan and, poof, an SUV dealership goes up in flames or lab animals get set loose.”
“They’ve got to be based somewhere. You don’t just drive up to a target in the Scooby van.”
“There’s often a local, someone living in the target area, not involved in the act, but sympathetic, who provides reconnaissance, photos, videos, sometimes a safe house. We assume Epstein mines his list of subscribers and someone watches them for a while, then approaches with an offer to contribute to the cause.”
“The enabler.” I put my fork down. “Someone like this Roger character. What do you know about him?”
“That name hasn't come up, but your description fits someone we've heard about.” She smiled. “He uses different names each time. We call him the Lone Ranger, because he just seems to pop up out of nowhere, organize a raid or protest, and then disappear. When things fall apart, and we manage to catch some people, he's never one of them.”
“Why do you think it's him?”
“Your description. Blonde, good-looking kid, brown eyes.” She pointed at her neck. “The scar.”
“So agitators like Roger, organize the true believers after Epstein works them up into a frenzy. They find foot soldiers to do the dirty work and useful idiots like Ken to finance the operation, but they manage to keep their own hands clean.”
“That's what we think.” She picked up a potato chip. “Can't prove it, though. Can't even tell you who he is.”
“Well,” I said, “perhaps Mr. Epstein can.”
Karen leaned forward. “Why would he tell you anything?”
“I don't know. Let's say I'm a cockeyed optimist and he'll believe I'm only looking for a missing kid.”
“Who you suspect is out doing his bidding.”
“Possibly.” I put my fork down. “But, it doesn't feel right.”
“Why?”
“Mainly, it's that so much time has gone by and nothing's happened
.”
“I’m not entirely sure nothing has.”
“What do you mean?”
“The place you mentioned. In Colorado. There was a fire there back in October.”
“I know, I read about it. Some welder got careless.”
“So they say.”
“You don't buy it?”
She shook her head. “Not really. Some of the original eyewitness reports made it sound a lot bigger than their description. Some people saw explosions and a ton of flame.”
“Are you investigating?”
“Not in this lifetime. FBI only investigates if it's terrorism. Owner said it was an accident, local authorities confirmed. No damage to any facilities or buildings. End of story. We've got enough on our plate.” She leaned forward. “But, it’s a little odd, don’t you think, considering the connection to your missing boy?”
“I agree. I don’t like coincidences. One more thing to ask Mr. Epstein.”
She sighed, and toyed with the remains of her dinner.
“Karen, what's wrong?”
“You talking to Epstein. It’s a problem.” She looked up at me. “I told Roma I was meeting you.”
I whistled. John Roma was the no nonsense son of a bitch in charge of the New York office of the FBI, which made him Assistant Director level. I'd met him once, briefly, at my wife’s memorial service, but I didn’t remember anything he said.
“That was kind of you.”
“Come on, Nick. It's more than just me; I've got to think about Tom, too. Epstein is an open investigation. You shouldn't be messing around in it.”
“Are you ordering me to back off?”
She grinned at me. “Would it do any good?” When I shook my head, she said, “Well, then consider it a suggestion.”
