Trust But Verify

by Karna Small Bodman

  “Lots of people. Any time there’s a mid-term election or change of administration, a slew of people come to Washington. Sometimes it’s hard to find the right properties for them because the displaced people never want to leave town or be separated from the power, even by a few blocks. They end up taking jobs as lobbyists or working for a think tank or a nonprofit if they can afford it. You’d be amazed by how many people come here saying they’re going to take a position for a year or two and then stay on for life.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that. But what about the foreigners? They’re only here for a couple of years. Do they still buy houses?” Brett asked, trying to steer the conversation back on track.

  “Many of them do. And the embassies, some of the larger ones, are always trying to increase their presence here.”

  “Oh yeah? Which ones?”

  “Let’s see . . . the Canadians. They’re our biggest trading partners, of course.”

  “Anyone else?” Brett asked, pretending to examine an impressionist painting.

  “Oh, the Chinese, the Russians, Abu Dhabi. I try to meet them all,” she said with another appraising grin.

  If he could keep this line of communication going, he just might learn something to keep Trevor placated. “I figure prices are pretty steep for houses, so I was wondering . . . what about a high-rise? Are there any better deals that are also close in?”

  “As you’ve noticed, we don’t have real high-rises in D.C. They build those over in Virginia,” she said somewhat disparagingly. “Here we have strict height limits. The rule used to be nothing taller than the Capitol. It was adjusted a little, but not by much. I’ll go ahead and research some of the larger low-rise apartment buildings for you,” she said.

  She led the way back down the stairs. When they got to the front door, she was already scrolling through her iPhone. “Of course, we have tons of listings. Have to watch out, though. Here’s one described as ‘historic.’ That means, ‘Good luck on maintenance,’ ” she said with a laugh. “If it says, ‘close to attractions,’ that can mean it’s wedged between a grocer and a liquor store. I have to be careful about single family homes too. I had one client who fell in love with a darling house on Q Street, but his neighbor turned out to be a bee keeper.”

  Brett chuckled and said, “There must be something else—perhaps a bit more modest—that we could look at.” He wasn’t sure how long it would take to turn her into an informant, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t be soon. Which agitated him. He wanted to find the low-life who triggered the Naples blast that could have killed Samantha Reid. Even though scores of agents were working on the investigation, he kept wondering if she really was in danger. No one could get to her inside the West Wing, but what about the rest of the time? He shook his head slightly to clear away the image of her calm face and tried to refocus on the realtor who was answering his question about cheaper digs.

  “Oh certainly,” Eleanor said. She glanced at the espresso-colored floors and laughed. “I completely forgot there’s a Starbucks around the corner. Why don’t we stop there and go through some listings over a caramel macchiato or a café mocha cinnamon? Personally, I like the skinny flavored lattes.”

  That tracks.

  Brett glanced at her body. It reminded him of the hollow-cheeked model he saw on the front of a magazine in the checkout line at a Seven-Eleven. Then his attention snapped back to the Naples investigation.

  He wondered if the Florida sheriff had any more details about the explosion. He stole a glance at his cell, but no new texts had come in since he left the office. He would double-check the sheriff’s report as soon as he was finished with the skinny latte woman. Right now, Starbucks sounded like the perfect tonic. And a simple cup of black coffee would be just fine.

  ELEVEN

  TUESDAY AFTERNOON;

  MARIN COUNTY, CALIFORNIA

  “RULE NUMBER ONE: NEVER LOSE money. Rule Number Two: never forget Rule Number One,” Vadim said, gazing out the passenger car window toward the bay. There, a dozen sailboats were unfurling their spinnakers to catch the afternoon wind. Some were bright blue. Others were red and yellow as they raced to an imaginary finish line.

  Maksim turned in the driver’s seat and glanced at the rippling sails. “Didn’t that American investor make those rules? Name’s Buffett, I think,” he said.

  “Yes,” Vadim agreed. “Makes a good point. Unfortunately, we haven’t been following his rules. But we’ll take care of that soon.” He looked at the rearview mirror and eyed Otto sitting in the back seat. “Did you take care of the toll on the Golden Gate Bridge?”

  “Sure did. They closed all the toll booths, so you have to use a pass or pay electronically. I did a one-time payment online.” He started swiping his iPhone. When he looked up again, he said, “Uncle Vadim, I have an idea about how to protect our money and make more.”

  “You have an idea? An idea for our business? This I gotta hear,” Vadim said.

  “Why don’t we get into crypto-currencies? We can set up a virtual account and trade without the authorities tracking us.”

  “Why should we transfer our good money into those crazy Bitcoins? They go up. They go down. Way too volatile,” Vadim said.

  “Sure, but they’re already worth billions,” Otto said. “I’ve been studying them. You can buy them with credit cards or wire transfers—lots of ways. And we can take them as payment for some of our shipments. When they first came out, money-launderers, mostly drug people, started to use them so nobody could trace where their money came from.”

  “We don’t deal in drugs,” Vadim said.

  “But we could still use crypto-currencies to eliminate our business’s paper trail. Nobody could find our money.” He paused and mumbled, “I mean, your business’s money.”

  “Wait a minute,” Maksim said, accelerating up the hill just beyond the turnoff to Sausalito. “Who sets the value? How do you know they’re safe?”

  “They’re sort of like gold. The market sets the value,” Otto said. He held up his iPhone to show his uncle a website. “See, here’s one of the sites with a trading platform.”

  Vadim leaned over, grabbed the phone, and stared at the little screen. “I still say the price could tank. How would that be good for us?”

  “You just hold on through the ups and downs. Besides, it’s spreading fast. They’re using it to pay for dowries in Sudan, make bets on soccer games in Kenya—all kinds of stuff,” Otto said.

  “Sounds like a Ponzi scheme,” Maksim said. They were driving over a ridge and had a clear view of the Tiburon Peninsula where multi-million dollar homes dotted the hillside.

  “So, these coin things aren’t backed by a central bank. Right?” Vadim asked.

  “No,” Otto said. “That’s what’s so neat about them. No banker looking at your accounts.”

  “Speaking of banks,” Maksim said, “I’ve been studying which ones might welcome what cash we have left and forget to file the CTRs.”

  “CTRs?” Otto said.

  “Currency Transaction Reports,” Maksim explained. “Whenever anyone tries to deposit more than $10,000 in cash, they have to fill out a form.”

  “You have a lot more than that coming in,” Otto said. “What do they do with CTRs?”

  “They go to the back office. Nobody pays attention to them unless there are patterns. Lots of smaller deposits of $9,000 would raise a red flag,” Maksim said with a smile.

  “But you’ve talked about millions,” Otto pressed.

  “Right. But we split it up in a bunch of numbered accounts and look for offshore banks that don’t get hung up on paperwork. For a small fee, of course.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work. Dealing with electronic money could be easier. No forms either,” Otto said.

  “We’ll see,” Vadim said cautiously. He handed the iPhone back over the seat. “At least you’re thinking these days. What I’ve got in mind is huge, though. We need a central banker to help us out. Misha, remember our old f
riend Alexander Tepanov?”

  “Sure. He set up the accounts that ran the money we got from those sales in Sierra Leone. He laundered it through the car dealers we set up, and he only took 20 percent as I recall.”

  “That’s the one,” Vadim said. “You’ll never guess what his new job is.”

  “He’s still in Moscow, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. In a brand new position. He was never listed for any sanctions because he operated under the radar. Now he’s been named one of the central bankers.”

  “So, he can help us with almost anything,” Maksim said.

  “Precisely. His official salary isn’t that much, so I’m sure he’ll be happy to do things for us on the side,” Vadim said. He glanced at the road and then looked at Maksim. “You sure you’ve got the right directions to the gun range in San Rafael?”

  “Got ‘em,” Maksim said.

  “Good. I don’t want to be late. I want plenty of time to make sure Otto knows what he’s doing with a Glock.”

  “I don’t think you have to worry. He’s had plenty of practice.”

  “That was back home and a while ago. He’s here now. Needs new training,” Vadim said. “We’ll practice too now that we carry at all times.” When Maksim sighed, Vadim turned to him and said, “A gun is like a parachute. If you need one and don’t have one, you’ll probably never need one again.”

  “I know. But I still prefer to have our mafya friends handle any real problems,” Maksim said.

  “Yes, yes,” Vadim said impatiently. “They arrive tomorrow. But they will be handling things in Wyoming. Otto will be handling our problem in Washington. We want him ready for whatever he might have to deal with.” Vadim turned to face Otto. “Since you screwed up the first time, I’ve taken steps to make sure you don’t screw up again.”

  Otto sat silent as his uncle went on. “You know we have friends. Contacts in high places. In our business, it’s vital. Our success isn’t our own. It’s also important to our clients and highly placed officials who like to share in our profits in exchange for information. I have an ace in the capital.”

  “Is the ace going to help me?” Otto asked in a cautious tone.

  “Yes. Our people watch their people. Their people watch our people. Everybody knows that. But some are better than others.”

  “Ours are better?” Otto asked.

  “Much better,” Vadim said. “As soon as I knew our White House target had survived, I asked this contact to share his file on her. He’s the military attaché at our embassy, so he knows where she lives and when she goes to work. I might get the file before you leave.”

  “A military type? Does he sell arms like you?” Otto asked.

  “That’s not important right now. The point is, he has access to their surveillance reports on White House officials. Now we’ll have access too,” Vadim said with confidence.

  Maksim pulled into the parking lot of the range and killed the motor. The three of them trooped over to a low, concrete building with an Office sign on the door to get their weapons and ammunition, then they joined a dozen people standing outside.

  “Folks, listen up,” the manager called out to the group gathered at one end of the compound. “Range safety is pretty obvious, but anyone who doesn’t follow it gets kicked out. Everyone understand that?” He heard mumblings, but they all eventually nodded. “Okay, always keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to fire. Always keep your firearm unloaded until you’re in the shooting booth and ready to fire. Always keep the action of your firearm open when you are not at the firing line. Got that?”

  The group nodded again. “For you new folks here today,” he glanced over at the trio of Russians. “No one who’s had a drink or any kind of drug is permitted here at any time. Got that?” Vadim, Maksim, and Otto all glared at the man. “Got that?” he repeated.

  “Yeah, we got that,” Vadim said. “It’s too early to drink anyway.” A few others chuckled.

  The manager went on. “Do you all have your goggles and ear protection? Anyone who doesn’t have his own, we’ve got extras in the shop. Have to protect your eyes and ears whenever you’re on the range. And no smoking. Now then, can’t let anyone under the age of eighteen on the range.” He looked over at Otto. “How old are you?”

  “I’m twenty-two.”

  “I can vouch for that,” Maksim said. “He’s our nephew.”

  “Guess he looks old enough. One more thing, no fast firing is allowed. You have to wait at least two seconds between shots. Everyone got that?” Again, the group mumbled their agreement. “Any questions?”

  Otto spoke up. “Do you take Bitcoins for payment here?”

  “Sure we do,” the manager replied. “Neat new system. Less paperwork. And we don’t have to pay credit card fees. You got a Bitcoin wallet, come see me later.”

  Otto smiled.

  The manager turned to leave and said over his shoulder, “Okay, you all have a booth assignment over there, so spread out. Just remember to follow the damn rules, and we’ll all be fine.”

  Otto walked to a vending machine near their booth and fed it a few coins. He punched a few buttons until a candy bar dropped to the bottom. After he scooped it up, he said, “That guy’s like you, Uncle Vadim. A man with a lot of rules.”

  “Pretty annoying if you ask me,” Vadim said, ambling toward their booth. “I paid the guy to rent these guns. Bought the ammo. He’s making a profit. He shouldn’t worry so much. C’mon. There’s our place over there,” he said, pointing to a long row of covered, wooden-partitioned spaces with numbers hanging in front. Inside, each one had a ledge under an opening that looked out at a series of targets set many yards away. They took their guns and equipment to space number seven and scanned the area. Then Vadim turned to Otto who was adjusting his head gear.

  “This Glock you rented for me…it’s different from the one I used back home. Must be new,” Otto said.

  “Change is inevitable,” Maksim said.

  “Except from a vending machine,” Otto said with a smile. “Anyway, this one isn’t heavy at all. I’ve seen these in movies, but I didn’t know they were so light. What are they made of?”

  “It’s a polymer frame,” Maksim said. “This is a Glock 19. When you pull the slide back, there’s a striker that moves back and locks. That means it’s ready to fire.”

  Otto stared at the slide. “We use a 9-millimeter bullet, right?”

  “That’s what these are.” Maksim held up a tiny, mixed-metal tube. “The bullet goes in, the trigger releases the striker, and a spring hits it into the bullet. When the gun goes off, that forces the slide back again. There’s no on-off safety on this gun. They’ve got a different kind of safety system so that nothing happens unless a lever inside the trigger is pulled back.”

  “I get it,” Otto said. “Let me try.” He followed Maksim’s lead and stood with his legs apart and one arm extended slightly longer than the other. He held the gun with two hands, stared at the target, took aim, and gently squeezed the trigger. “I hit something,” he exclaimed, putting down the Glock and adjusting his head gear.

  “Something,” Vadim said. “Just nothing near the middle. Keep shooting.” All three of them loaded their guns and took their shots, waiting the obligatory two seconds between firings.

  Otto didn’t want the manager to have any reason to remember them. So, he kept his hoodie over his ear protectors and didn’t talk to anyone else at the range. The news reports he had seen about the Naples bombing always included a request for anyone who knew a waiter named Otto Kukk to notify law enforcement. Each request was accompanied by the FBI’s sketch of him. At least Vadim and Maksim hadn’t seen it. They didn’t watch much news. They stuck to sports channels and occasionally checked the financial reports. But what about everybody else?

  He fired another shot and glanced to his right. He noticed a man in a nearby booth who was high-fiving his friend. The man turned toward him, inclined his head, and then said something to the guy next t
o him. Both men looked at Otto for a moment before turning back to their target.

  Otto started to perspire under his sweatshirt.

  Did they recognize me?

  Terrifying possibilities started racing through Otto’s mind. Would they call the police? The FBI? He couldn’t tell Vadim he had to leave without explaining the FBI sketch. Besides, his uncles were still shooting, taking turns every two seconds.

  He stole another glance at the two men. They were firing their weapons. He let out a breath and decided to play it cool. Maybe they had noticed him because he was the youngest guy at the range. After all, he was just practicing, like everybody else.

  He started to relax when he remembered that he’d be leaving for Washington tomorrow night. Vadim was making him take the red-eye since it was the cheapest flight. When he got to D.C., he needed to be prepared to monitor that White House woman and figure out how to get rid of her.

  Otto adjusted his goggles, took aim, and hit the target.

  TWELVE

  TUESDAY LATE AFTERNOON;

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  “HEY, BRETT. COME IN HERE and get a load of this,” Dominick Turiano called out.

  “Be right in,” Brett said, hanging up his suit coat and rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt. He walked down to the other agent’s office and stepped inside.

  “Trevor wanted me to show you the latest,” Dom said. “The team—well, your new team—might find good uses for some of these.”

  Brett strode over to a long table where several devices were displayed along with a stack of papers and a colored brochure. Dom handed him a tiny object.

  “Looks like a screw to me,” Brett said, rolling the small metal cylinder between his fingers. “What does it do?”

  “Look close,” Dom said, grabbing the screw and holding it up. “One end is a miniature drill. It can work its way into basically anything that’s wood, plaster, or drywall. Only goes in a fraction of an inch. Then it pivots and inserts the other end, which contains a listening device. If it doesn’t pick up any sound or conversation, it pivots around again and drills another hundredth of an inch. It repeats the process until you can pick up normal talking.”