Trust But Verify

by Karna Small Bodman

  When they first looked at property, they had enjoyed the irony of relocating to an area called Russian Hill. Now they enjoyed an unrestricted panorama that included Alcatraz, Tiburon, Angel Island, and Belvedere to the north and Treasure Island halfway across the Bay Bridge to the east. A great piece of real estate. All paid for by Vadim’s mind and its terrifying moods.

  As he poured another drink and tried to ignore his brother’s rants, Maksim thought back to their days growing up in Moscow when Vadim had looked after him, called him “Misha,” and taught him all sorts of clever ways to gather rubles. Back then, they stole toy guns from GUM, the famous, state shopping mall on the eastern side of Red Square, and sold them to kids in their neighborhood.

  Now they sold (many more) real guns and rockets to virtually any militant group that found their cell numbers. Vadim knew how to pay off certain Russian officers to loot weapons from their stockpiles, send shipments to international clients, and stash the payments in various banks with lax record-keeping. It helped when Maksim found bank clerks willing to set up their numbered accounts and then bury the paperwork. For the right price.

  Their well-oiled business model back home allowed them to conduct some of their best business abroad. They sold arms to FARC in South America and Lashkar-e-Taiba in Kashmir. And when Hamas and Hezbollah became major buyers, it just added more intrigue and profit to the mix. They never sold to ISIS in Syria or Iraq, though. They wanted to sell guns to rogue armies, not machetes to militants who had a penchant for decapitating Christians. After all, they had standards.

  While Vadim could manipulate the numbers, shipments, and pay-offs, he couldn’t predict politicians. They lost a fortune when their accounts in Malta and Cyprus were raided by governments trying to manage deficits by confiscating deposits. And when Putin made his first moves in Crimea and sanctions kicked in, they lost a lot more. Additional sanctions related to election tampering almost wiped them out, but not entirely. Maksim realized these developments just added fuel to his brother’s fiery temper. As he gazed around their expensive condo, he knew it was time for another idea.

  As if reading his mind, Vadim called out, “Come over here, and I’ll tell you about our next moves.”

  “You’ve come up with a Plan B already?” Maksim said, handing his brother a refill. Otto quietly crept over to a side chair to listen.

  “I always have a Plan B, even a Plan C.” Vadim glanced at his nephew and continued, “Plan B is to send Otto to Washington to deal with the woman again. With her out of the way, some of their tracking schemes will slow down. At least for a while. We can work out those details later. Now Plan C is about our cash. I’ve been thinking about how to replace the money we’ve lost. Our sales are one thing, but I’m talking about a hit. I just sent word to our favorite mafya comrades in Moscow. Stas and Lubov are coming over to execute it,” Vadim said with a confident smile, taking another drink.

  “I don’t get it. What kind of hit are you talking about?” Maksim said.

  “Not just one hit. A major hit,” Vadim said, waving his hand. “It’s going to be where no one would ever expect.”

  “Where?” Otto ventured from across the room.

  Vadim took a deep breath and announced, “A place called Jackson Hole.”

  FIVE

  MONDAY MORNING;

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  BRETT KEATING FLASHED HIS BADGE at the security guard at the entrance to the underground parking garage. The hard, plastic ID was blue with the letters “LE” in red on the lower right-hand corner, indicating he carried a gun. He drove to a low level, parked the car, and took the elevator to his floor at 601 Fourth Street NW in downtown Washington. He sprinted down the hall of the FBI’s Field Office, his new home of one whole week.

  He was transferred from the Chicago bureau where he gained an impressive reputation as a special agent by ferreting out the connections of crime bosses.

  Now, with a promotion and a decent cubicle in the new place, Brett thought he could spend some time assessing the D.C. scene. No such luck. He was right back in the midst of a major investigation. A possible terrorist attack in Naples of all places. Who attacks a vacation town in Florida?

  A step away from his cubicle, he sloughed off his jacket and removed his coffee thermos from his briefcase, having learned on his first day that what he made in his condo was gourmet compared to the Turkish tasting stuff in the office pot.

  “Brett, get in here.” The order came from a conference room at the end of the hall.

  He tossed his briefcase and jacket on his chair, poured the steaming brew into the mug he kept on his desk, and headed to the supervisor’s command center where two other agents were already seated at a long table flanked by American and FBI flags.

  “Nice of you to grace us with your presence,” Trevor Mason said in a raspy voice. “We just received an update from the Collier County sheriff in Florida on that explosion.” He passed out copies of a report. Brett pulled out a chair, sat down, and quickly scanned the memo.

  “So, you’ll see that he agrees with our guys on the ground that there was some sort of timing device hidden in an electrical cabinet,” the boss continued. “No prints, no fibers, nothing we can trace. They’re saying it was C-4. Our team in Tallahassee is all over it, and DHS sent a team down overnight. They’ve been interviewing every single employee in the hotel, along with management, of course.

  “The governor’s security detail has been helping,” Trevor went on. “His social staff went over the guest list. Nothing suspicious there. No unusual foreign names. Just a few Germans who live in Naples with no motive to blow up their own playground. Only problem is that the hotel people say they first thought it might be some sort of gas leak. Not an attack. They’re used to tourists in Naples, not terrorists.”

  Brett flipped a page of the report and locked eyes with his boss, an aging man with the eyes of a basset hound. The guy was ready to retire, yet he kept going at all hours. He’d been working to wrap up a whole raft of cases and didn’t look like he planned to call it quits any time soon. Brett had heard he often got hung up on bureaucratic procedure and could be pretty cantankerous when the coffee ran out. He took a sip from his mug and asked, “What about injuries? Says here that a pastry chef got some burns, but it was from a blowtorch, not the explosion. Looks like he got out before the blast. If he were the only one hurt, that would be amazing considering the damage.”

  “They say they’re all accounted for except for one guy,” Trevor said.

  “A new hire,” Agent Dom Turiano said. “Temporary for that shindig. Management says they were in a hurry to line up some extra servers when the attendance list expanded. They took on several applicants who could speak English. Guess they didn’t take time to vet them too closely. Name they’ve got here is Otto Kukk. What kind of name is that?”

  “Could be Estonian,” said the one female analyst at the table. Nori Hotta was the office linguist who spoke half a dozen languages.

  Brett turned to the petite woman with black hair and round, wire-rimmed glasses. “We haven’t had that much trouble with Estonians, except for those hackers who steal credit cards. Probably an alias anyway.” He glanced down and continued, “I see that nobody with that name has a Facebook or Twitter account.”

  “Point is we need to find this person.” Trevor said. “We’ve got a BOLO for the guy,” he continued, referring to their be-on-the-lookout order. “Not ready for an All-points just yet. Go to the last page of the report. Our artist did a mock-up. Got descriptions from HR, a chef, and a bunch of others in the kitchen.”

  Brett studied the drawing. “A lot of dark hair, pretty thin. Does look Eastern European. Or maybe Russian. Nori, what do you think?”

  She scanned the page. “Yes, I agree. Looks young too. A student maybe.”

  “Most of the terrorists we’ve ID’d are young,” Trevor said. “ISIS recruits teenagers. What the hell are they thinking?” he muttered as he shook his head and pointed to the image. “If
he is Estonian or Russian, we haven’t seen any ISIS types from those countries. This could be entirely different. We’re circulating this picture everywhere, checking all our databases. Just for questioning since we’ve got no proof and no connection to anything yet. Now, let’s see what else.” He shuffled the pages and went on. “Our guys on the scene are briefing the media, asking anyone who might know the kid to call it in on the usual FBI number. Wish we had video. The Ritz doesn’t have surveillance in its kitchens or back hallways. Then again, if this waiter is involved, I figure he’s either long gone or long dead.”

  “On the other hand,” Nori said, “maybe he’s an illegal who was just looking for work. Maybe he had false papers and just got scared when the fire started and ran away. They have thousands of undocumented immigrants working everywhere in Florida. Maybe it was put together by someone else on the staff, or even a hotel guest.”

  “Could be. Whoever it is, this doesn’t look like the work of some lone nutcase or a single terrorist,” Trevor said. “That was a damn big explosion. It had to be pretty well planned. And if it wasn’t a terrorist, it could have been some crazy plot to wipe out the governor. He had the highest profile in the place, except for a bunch of CEOs. Oh, and Samantha Reid from the White House. In any event, the blast didn’t nail any of the important types, or anyone else, because the fire alarm kicked off first.”

  Brett studied the memo again and murmured, “I wonder.”

  “What?” Trevor barked.

  “The waiter, Otto. The idea that he was trying to nail the governor. Reminds me of Occam’s razor.”

  “Whose razor?” Dom asked.

  “Occam’s razor,” Brett repeated. “The theory that a simpler hypothesis is generally better than a complex one. But in this case . . .” He shook his head. “Something doesn’t compute.”

  “Smart-ass,” Trevor mumbled.

  “I see what he means,” Nori said, pointing to the paper. “Too many loose ends here. The governor, the Reid woman, this Otto person. I know the police are working on this, but it could be a lot more complicated than this summary from the sheriff or anything we’ve received from our Florida agents.”

  “So, what now? Besides the bureau, the sheriff, and DHS, what’s the latest on briefing the president? Has the FBI done that yet?” Brett asked, addressing the question to his boss. He took another sip from his mug and waited for the answer.

  “Director was notified within minutes of Samantha Reid’s call to the White House, along with the attorney general. The president is being kept up to speed. He usually likes to sound all in the know about these things, but my hunch is that he’ll wait until the director gives him something substantial. Which could take a while. No one knows who did this, who, if anybody, was the target, and why the hell they picked Naples.”

  Trevor pointed to Brett and continued, “Head over to the White House and get an appointment with this Samantha Reid. She works on a whole raft of issues with the DHS, CIA, DOD, and treasury. Seems some part of almost every threat or attack makes its way to her office. I need more from her on this whole scenario. We already have her statement, but they took it right after the blast. Check if she’s back in town. Maybe she’s had a chance to remember more details. Show her the drawing. See if it registers. And when you get back, come talk to me. I’ve got another assignment for you.”

  Brett shoved his chair back, grabbing it before it hit the tile floor. “I’m on it,” he said and hurried back to his office to make the call.

  SIX

  MONDAY AFTERNOON;

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  “BRETT KEATING, FBI, TO SEE Samantha Reid,” he said, showing his ID for the second time. His white visitor badge signaled that he had already passed through gate security at the northwest entrance to the White House. A nod allowed him to proceed down a long walkway toward the West Wing. As he walked, he noticed scores of reporters doing stand-ups on the north lawn. Finally, he was ushered into the West Wing lobby by a marine who nodded and opened the door for him.

  A guard inside compared the ID to a list on his desk and reached for the phone. “If you’ll take a seat, Agent Keating, I’ll let her assistant know you’re here.”

  “Thanks.” Brett stepped over to look at a painting hanging on the west wall. It was Emanuel Leutze and Eastman Johnson’s Washington Crossing the Delaware. There seemed to be a woman in the (president’s) boat along with several others, including a fellow holding an American flag. Brett frowned and shook his head. He vaguely remembered learning in an old American history class that the flag was designed after Washington made that crossing.

  It’s still a pretty good picture even if they sort of got it wrong.

  On the other side of a tall, mahogany bookcase was another painting. This one was titled Old Faithful by Albert Bierstadt. The national park looked like a great place to explore someday. That is, if he ever got some time off, which he knew wouldn’t be any time soon.

  “Mr. Keating?” a short, trim, young woman with a welcoming smile motioned to Brett.

  “Yes?” he answered, walking over to display his ID again.

  “That won’t be necessary. I’m Joan Tillman, Miss Reid’s administrative assistant. Right this way, please.” She walked past two blue camelback sofas and headed down a hallway. He followed as she climbed a narrow staircase leading to a small office on the second floor. The door was open. She knocked on the doorframe. “Samantha, Special Agent Brett Keating to see you. And by the way, anyone want coffee? We have a fresh pot.”

  Brett nodded to Joan. “That would be terrific. Just black please.”

  “I’ll have my usual,” a well-modulated voice called from inside.

  So, this is the White House Homeland Security Director, Brett thought.

  Samantha, clad in a narrow, navy skirt and beige, silk blouse, walked around her desk to give him a firm handshake. He had seen a few pictures of her in recent news reports about how she was leading a task force to crack down on illicit arms sales. The photos didn’t do her justice. “Pleased to meet you,” he said. “I’m sure you’re swamped. Glad you could fit me in.”

  “I have another meeting shortly, but you said you were working on the Naples explosion. So, how can I help?” She returned to her desk and motioned to Brett as she sat down.

  He pulled up a scarlet, leather side chair, yanked the Collier County sheriff’s report out of his briefcase, and handed it to her. “You may have seen most of this already, but we just got a drawing of a possible suspect. A waiter, Otto Kukk, which probably isn’t his real name. I wanted to see if it jogged your memory. Maybe you saw him or heard something while you were there.”

  She studied the report for a minute. “Rather long, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, sometimes those things are a waste of toner. But this one includes some interesting facts about what they found,” Brett said.

  “Here’s your coffee,” Joan said from the open door. After she circulated the room, Brett and Samantha held matching mugs. Each had a golden White House seal on one side.

  Brett took a sip and said, “Thanks a lot. Much better than what the FBI has these days.”

  “We aim to please,” Joan said and quickly left the room.

  Samantha flipped through the report until she found the drawing. She paused and closed her eyes, trying to visualize the scene. “It was all so weird and violent,” she said with a slight shudder. “Here we were at a fundraiser with, as my dad used to say, ‘the great and the near great.’ And a waiter came around with red and white wine.” She looked up at the ceiling, hesitated, and said, “Yes, that’s it.”

  “What’s it?” Brett asked, leaning forward.

  “I think this is the waiter who offered us wine,” she pointed to the picture. “He was right over my shoulder.”

  “Watching you?”

  “Perhaps. He kept saying, ‘Red or white?’ When I stopped talking and looked up, I sensed he’d been there a while.”

  “Then that’s him. He spotted you
,” Brett said. “Did you see him again?”

  “I don’t think so because the fire alarm went off after that. Then we were all ushered outside right before the explosion. It was incredible. Part of one wall kind of disintegrated in front of us. People were yelling, running, covering their ears. I couldn’t move.

  “In the midst of all the chaos,” she explained, “all I could think about was whether anyone had been killed and if it was some kind of terrorist attack.”

  She took a drink of her coffee, set the mug down, leaned forward, and then handed the report back to Brett. “I saw in the report that they found a timer. Who set it and why? Do you think it was that waiter? I’ve often thought the bomber could have been targeting the governor, but that theory never adds up perfectly. If someone were trying to kill him, it would be much easier to do it in Tallahassee even with his security detail. And why take out an entire room of innocent people if you’re trying to get one guy? Why not just put something in his drink?”

  “Interesting idea,” Brett said. “On the other hand, if this waiter was someone’s errand boy, maybe he was told to use C-4 so that he wouldn’t miss his target in a big ballroom.”

  “I guess,” she said.

  “There’s also the possibility that you were the target,” Brett said. “As you saw in the report, they’ve been interviewing everyone on the hotel staff, and the only guy they can’t locate is your waiter. They’re going through every staff resume looking for connections even though he was a temporary hire. No one wants to rule out the possibility that someone they fired was crazy enough to do it for revenge.”

  He glanced down at the memo again. “Back to this Otto Kukk. He was hired just for the event. HR said they were desperate for extra help when the charity’s guest list multiplied at the last minute.”