Trust But Verify

by Karna Small Bodman

  Homer paused and handed some papers to Ken and Samantha. He added, “We’re monitoring and enforcing the latest sanctions, of course. Since the beginning when everyone thought they’d just hurt a few of the top guys in the Kremlin, there’s been an incredible ripple effect. But with all the corruption over there, most of the targets have figured out ways to get around them.”

  “And Ken,” Samantha said, “this all ties in with some new intel on possible Russian arms shipments. Not government to government.” She passed him the satellite photos. “These shipments could be from some of the syndicates that lost all that money. We think they’re still trying to make some of it back by selling to FARC, Hamas, and a few others.”

  The advisor studied the pictures. “Damn! They look just like the shipments the terrorists used on those innocent kids.” He turned to Homer. “More fuel for your fire. I’ll get these over to DOD and see if they can do some intercepts on the latest trove here.”

  Homer grabbed a silver pitcher from the table’s center and poured three glasses of water. He passed the drinks around and said, “The Russians are going to need a lot more than a few arms sales to make up their losses. Still, the more deals like this we can stop, the more violence we can tamp down. Trouble is, there are so many of them. We think the Russian mafia now controls four out of every ten businesses and sixty percent of state-owned companies. Could be more.”

  The NSC advisor turned to Samantha. “The president appreciates your efforts to connect those groups and their money to illicit arms sales, but we could use more international cooperation. And that brings me to a new idea. Well, not exactly an idea. It’s an assignment.”

  “Another assignment?” Samantha asked with a worried look.

  “This one could reap some very important results and get us even more support from the world-wide financial community.” He motioned to Homer, “Not that you all aren’t doing a great job at the Treasury.” Homer gave a slight nod as Ken took a little booklet out of his ever-present leather folder and handed it to Samantha. It had a picture of a lake surrounded by mountains on the cover.

  She studied it, hesitated, and read out loud, “The Federal Reserve Bank of Kansas City’s Jackson Hole Economic Policy Symposium? What does this have to do with me?”

  “That’s where you’re going,” Ken replied.

  “Why?” Samantha asked, sounding somewhat agitated. “This is a conference for members of the Federal Reserve.”

  “Yes, it’s next week. But it’s not just the Federal Reserve. It attracts over one hundred top financiers from all over the world. There’ll be central bankers, finance ministers, chairmen of banks like JP Morgan Chase, economists from places like Goldman Sachs, the head of the International Monetary Fund—you get the idea. Can you imagine a better place to highlight your strategies and get their cooperation to tighten up on money laundering and secret accounts? Before my meeting with the president, I talked this over with Phil Pickering. The Treasury secretary is in complete agreement.”

  He glanced at Homer again. “I wanted to give you a read-out on this as well because we want to send you too.” He turned back to Samantha and continued. “We’ve already had a preliminary discussion with the chairman of the host committee who’s organizing the conference. He was very enthusiastic about offering you an invitation to talk at one of their special sessions.”

  “I see the connection but—” She halted, trying to gather her thoughts.

  “What is it?” Ken asked.

  She sat back and took a deep breath. “Look, Ken, I know we can’t put personal situations before our responsibilities here—”

  “Personal situations?” Ken asked. “What are you talking about? This is one of the most important conferences you could attend. What personal situation could keep you from accepting their invitation?”

  She rubbed her forehead and tried to hold back the tension building there. “Uh, Ken, I don’t know if you’ve heard about my background.”

  “Of course, I know your background. Princeton, private sector, Department of Energy, White House. There are a lot of experts floating around the government, but we didn’t just promote you to the director’s job because you’re qualified and a quick study. We also promoted you because you’re a very competent spokesperson. And that’s what we want you to be in Jackson. Have you ever been there?”

  She had a momentary flash back to her experience in Naples a few days ago. She had escaped that disaster unscathed. Several years ago, she hadn’t been so lucky.

  Samantha stared at Ken and finally replied in a soft voice, “Yes, I’ve been there. That’s where I almost died.”

  EIGHT

  TUESDAY EARLY MORNING;

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  “GET ANYTHING AT THE WHITE House yesterday?” Trevor Mason called to Brett as he came into the office.

  “An ID on Otto Kukk. Samantha Reid remembered the waiter. He actually poured her wine,” Brett said, hanging up his navy suit coat on a hook in his cubicle’s wall.

  “So, he could have been looking for her?” the boss said, leaning against the wall near Brett’s coat.

  “Could be. She remembered him hanging around longer than the other staff. And in a large ballroom, this one guy waits on her,” Brett said.

  “Yeah. Could be significant. Or not. Anything else?”

  “She gave a detailed report to the Florida field agent,” Brett said. “Even though we don’t know who the real target was, I have a strong suspicion it was her.” He started to pour coffee from his thermos.

  “Anything else?” Trevor demanded.

  Brett paused and then said, “It must have been pure chaos down there.” He was reminded of the way the Chicago agents used to define the word “CHAOS”: Chief Has Arrived On Scene. Dealing with Trevor was going to be a bit challenging, and sure enough the man immediately barked out another order.

  “Well, stay on it. I want our agents to solve this before DHS or the locals.” He walked over, yanked a metal chair in front of Brett’s desk, and sat down. “Now, we’ve got another problem. Our agent assigned to embassy penetration is sick. Out for a while. Can’t pull anyone else off other assignments right now. You’re new. That means you’re taking it over. I saw in your file that you dealt with listening devices when you worked on that human trafficking case back in LaGrange.”

  “We got lucky on that one,” Brett said. “We heard they were going to move some women from El Salvador up north for their prostitution trade. Not the usual kind. This was much bigger. It was more like a slave trade operation. We nailed the bastards.”

  “We do things differently in the capital,” his boss said. “We’re not tracking slave traders, but we are tracking certain diplomatic types from China, Russia, Somalia, Egypt, Colombia, and elsewhere. They spy on us. We spy on them.”

  “They get pretty vocal about that when NSA gets publicity,” Brett said. “Remember when we built our embassy in Moscow way back?”

  “Sure,” Trevor said, “I was just going through my FBI training. We found so many bugs in the building, even inside the concrete columns, all built by Russian contractors, of course, we had to tear the whole thing down and start over with our own people.”

  “Jeez,” Brett said. “Reminds me of the Russian diplomat we kicked out for planting a bug inside our state department.”

  Trevor nodded. “The Russians are experts at that kind of thing. They even planted bugs in the pen gift sets they gave to our ambassadors when they arrived in Moscow. We don’t fall for that bullshit any more. Anyway, back to our current problem. When a foreign property changes hands in Washington, we need to know in advance so we can plant our own listening devices or refresh the ones already there.”

  “Figures,” Brett said, slowly sipping his coffee. “How do we keep them from finding our bugs? They sweep all the rooms before they move in.”

  “We have some new equipment coming in. It’s pretty sophisticated. When we think they’re doing their initial sweeps, we turn it off an
d then turn it back on the next day. They still suspect we’re listening, but you’d be amazed by what our guys have picked up lately. Someone on staff slips up on the phone, another mentions the name of a suspected militant group—it goes on and on.”

  “Okay. So, what’s next?”

  “You’re gonna have to clean up the mess the other agent left. He missed one. A house over on California Street was bought by the Chinese.”

  “Didn’t he coordinate with State?”

  “State has its Office of Foreign Missions helping them find properties, but a real estate agent evidently made a contact on her own. Obviously, she didn’t go through State or here. Usually, our agent stays on top of real estate deals between countries and certain local real estate agents, but she wasn’t on his radar and slipped through the cracks. Here’s the file.”

  He handed Brett a blue folder. “Go. Find her. Turn her into a CHS like some of the other good ones.” He got up, turned on his heel, and shuffled back to his office at the end of the hall.

  CHS. Clandestine Human Source, Brett translated mentally.

  He sat down at his desk and opened the folder. Her name was Eleanor Clay, and she worked for Washington Luxury Properties. A photo showed a short, rail-thin woman. As he examined it, he tried to place her age.

  Maybe thirty-five? Could be forty-five or fifty if she’s had some work done.

  He glanced back at the file. Her age was not listed. As he resumed his scrutiny of the photo, he realized she might be kind of attractive to some people. If they liked the skin-and-bones type, which had never appealed to him. The file said she was divorced and had moved here from New York.

  Makes sense.

  All the women he’d met up there were obsessed with salads and Pilates.

  What did they used to call them? X-rays?

  He turned a page. She had made many high-end sales in Kalorama, an area off Massachusetts Avenue where a lot of embassies were located. And there it was: a sale to a Chinese cultural minister. “Cultural, my ass,” he muttered to himself. “Station chiefs often use that cover when they head their spy operations abroad. No wonder Trevor is fuming over this.”

  Brett turned to the next page. She had several listings for other properties, and he wondered which foreigners were looking to buy what. Her office was in Foggy Bottom, not far from the State Department. He made a note of her number and picked up the phone.

  NINE

  TUESDAY LATE MORNING;

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  SAMANTHA’S HEAD WAS POUNDING. SHE had to stop thinking about the Tetons and focus on current threats to the country, along with terrorist organizations attacking children. She had seen bombing scenarios on TV news reports, but she knew the producers often edited out the most gruesome scenes. The unadulterated close-ups she had seen that morning kept invading her mind’s eye. She glanced around the small conference table at Joan and the heads of her six directorates as her deputy continued speaking.

  “Just got word of a possible threat at Wrigley Field,” Jim Shilling said, passing around copies of a memo. “NSA picked up a conversation between an operative in Yemen and some dude in Chicago. It’s a new connection, okayed by the FISA Court. FBI is all over it.”

  Samantha looked at the forty-five-year-old terrorism specialist she had recruited. When Jim worked for the Director of National Intelligence, he had proved to be a top-rate analyst. Having him detailed from the DNI’s staff had made her quite happy. Jim was by far the most irreverent, wise-cracking member of her staff. But considering the gravity of their issues, she figured his attempts to lighten the office mood weren’t all bad.

  They studied the memos and made some notes. “Speaking of the FBI, anything new on the Naples explosion?” another staffer asked.

  Samantha shook her head. “I met with the D.C. special agent assigned to it. Brett Keating. Nice enough. Pretty professional. Doesn’t waste your time. Evidently, there’s only one hotel employee they can’t find. A waiter named Otto Kukk. Must have run out.”

  “Can’t blame him for that,” Jim said.

  “When they went over his application, most of the information turned out to be bogus. Apparently, they were in such a hurry to find extra servers for the event, he just slipped through. They have a mock-up of him. I’m pretty sure I saw him there. Serving right at my table.”

  “Serving you?” an assistant asked. “Do you think he was scoping you out?”

  “That’s what the FBI agent thought. That maybe he was targeting me instead of the governor who was there. But I can’t imagine why someone would bother with an explosion just to deal with me,” Samantha said with a sigh.

  “But if wasn’t aimed at you or the governor, what could be the motive for bombing a fund-raiser for the Everglades?” another asked.

  “Someone who hates crocodiles and egrets,” Jim murmured.

  “Nobody has taken responsibility,” Samantha said.

  “Let’s go back to the idea that you were the target. They would have to be willing to kill hundreds of innocents at the same time. It would take a really crazy type to try that,” Joan said.

  “Same kind of crazy type that plans all of these attacks,” Jim said, waving his memo in the air.

  After exhausting the subject, Samantha went on to summarize a litany of threats she had gleaned from emails and conference calls in the last hour. Her team went over the list and suggested which ones could be handled best by DHS, the CIA, or the FBI and which ones should be elevated to the national security advisor.

  Once they finished, the head of her department’s secretariat division pulled out a sheet of paper from her notes and said, “Just got an update on how many other plots they’ve tracked down.” The staffer started to read. “There have been 137 terrorist plots identified by the FBI with 386 arrests or indictments. Well, that’s going back several years. But they were able to pinpoint, infiltrate, and stop each one. Kind of amazing, isn’t it?” She held up her hand and Jim slapped it.

  “Like the old Wayne Gretzky line, ‘You don’t skate to the puck. You skate to where the puck is going to be,’ ” he said.

  Samantha nodded. “By the way, I need to tell you where I’m going to be next week.”

  “I know,” Joan said. “It’s the Fed meeting. I just saw your invitation to speak to that group.”

  Jim gave a low whistle. “Speak to the Federal Reserve? Sounds like a pretty big deal. What’s the story?”

  “It’s their annual meeting in Jackson Hole.” She turned to Joan. “Please see what you can dig up on the conference agenda, hotel, and flights.”

  “Got it,” Joan said, making a note on a legal pad.

  “Okay, that’s it for now. Thanks, everyone,” Samantha said.

  As she got up from the table, Joan leaned over and whispered, “I can’t believe you’re going out there again. I mean after everything . . .”

  Samantha rubbed her forehead and muttered, “Believe me. Neither can I.”

  TEN

  TUESDAY AFTERNOON;

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  “VINTAGE MODERN. ISN’T THAT AN oxymoron?” Brett asked, getting out of the Jaguar the real estate agent had parked in front of a classic Georgian townhouse on Prospect Street. It was just down the block from Café Milano, a trendy hangout for high-powered politicians and the aspiring social set.

  He was following Trevor’s orders to determine if Eleanor could become a valuable source, but he resented the time he had to waste looking at property when he had a perfectly decent rental downtown. Still, asking to see a few of her listings was the easiest way to meet the woman.

  “Well, I guess you could say that.” She reached into her shoulder bag, fished out a key, and opened the door to a small foyer where a steep stairway dominated the area. “It has some historic features, but it’s been completely redone. It’s not terribly big. In fact, you could call it cozy,” she commented as Brett came inside and closed the door.

  “By cozy, does that mean a lamp couldn’t fit in the be
drooms?” he said, looking around.

  Eleanor gazed up into his eyes and gave him a big smile. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. Let me show you the kitchen. It’s all been upgraded. Stainless steel appliances, the latest quartz countertops, and new floors.” Pointing down, she gushed, “I just love this Mazama South American hardwood made of Cumaru. They call this color ‘espresso.’ ” She spread her arms, inviting him to take in the whole scene.

  Brett followed her up the narrow staircase, noting that her skirt was also quite narrow. And rather tight. As they climbed, she kept looking over her shoulder. From the way she had been sizing him up, it felt like she was on the prowl. Trolling might be a better description.

  When he called to make the appointment, he had told her he might buy a place of his own and that he was just renting for a while to get the lay of the land. After sensing her reaction, he regretted his choice of words. He hadn’t told her where he worked. He would do that later. For now, he’d play along with the house tour.

  “Nice living room,” he said. “Does this place come furnished?” He examined a pair of love seats covered in purple fabric with flowers all over it.

  Hope not, he thought.

  “That could be negotiable. You probably have your own things anyway. Most people do, unless they’re diplomats and move around a lot.”

  This could be useful.

  “Do you work with a lot of those?” he asked.

  “Occasionally. I’m just building my clientele, but I’ve made a point of meeting several of them. Pays to have the right contacts in this town.”

  “So I’ve heard,” he said. He walked around a glass coffee table resting on a brass base in the shape of a swan. “So, who’s buying right now?”