Trust But Verify

by Karna Small Bodman

  He asked a young woman standing at the front if Eleanor Clay had arrived yet. “Yes, sir. Let me take you to her. Careful on the steps,” she said, leading him past the bar which was separated from the tables by a low wall covered in dark brown leather. They took three steps down to the dining area.

  Brett spotted the real estate agent, perched in a half-moon-shaped booth lined with heavy beige fabric. He slid in across from her. “Evening, Eleanor. Hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

  “Not at all,” she purred. “I did go ahead and order my martini.”

  The waiters look like walking ads for their wine, Brett thought as one passed by. Another appeared wearing a long-sleeved cotton shirt the color of merlot.

  “May I take your drink order, sir?” the server asked with a practiced smile.

  “How about a beer,” Brett said.

  “Certainly, sir. We have the Avery White Rascal, the Ballast Point Sculpin, Founders Breakfast Stout, a Great Lakes Lager, a Pilsner, the Moretti or Peroni, both from Italy, of course, or perhaps you would prefer our Port City Pale Ale.”

  “The Peroni would be fine, thanks,” Brett said.

  “You’ll love the food here,” Eleanor said. “Rather nouveau, I suppose, but quite like some of my favorite haunts in New York. Check out this menu.” She handed him a heavy sheet with a headline that read, Market Tasting Menu Creations, on one side.

  Ignoring the specials listed under the headline, Brett flipped the sheet and scanned the regular entrees on the back. “The Salumeria Biellese Wagyu Beef Bresaola is dynamite,” Eleanor said. “Or maybe the Ahi Tuna Carpaccio for a first course. Are you a fish or pasta person?” she asked, raising her heavily blackened eyelashes at him.

  “I was thinking about a steak,” Brett replied. Then he noticed that the striploin at the bottom was served with radicchio tardivio, rosemary zabaglione, and Tuscan lardo. He had no idea what all that was. The steak was priced at sixty-four bucks. He wondered if they had A-1 sauce. Probably not.

  “Well, a big man like you needs a big steak. Go for it,” she said. “And remember, you’re my guest tonight. After all, I’m the one who suggested we meet here, and you’re my client.”

  “Sorry. It’s on me,” Brett said emphatically, knowing he couldn’t accept a high-priced dinner from a civilian. He’d just have to do his best on his expense account.

  The waiter put down his ale and said, “Have you folks decided on your dinner yet? No hurry, of course.”

  “Give us a bit of time,” Eleanor said. “I don’t want to rush things.”

  Neither did Brett, but he wanted to start easing into things. He took a sip of ale and looked directly at her. “There’s something important I want to talk to you about tonight.”

  “Yes, I know. I have several listings with me.” She reached toward the large shoulder bag sitting next to her.

  “No, wait,” Brett said. “I really appreciate the time you’ve spent showing me that townhouse and looking for apartment listings. I’ve been reviewing my financial commitments, and I’ve decided to wait a while to see how my new assignment shakes out. So, can we put those new listings on hold for now?”

  Eleanor shifted on the banquette. She sipped her martini and said in a low voice, “I’m sorry to hear that. I thought you were serious. And here I’ve spent a lot of time poring through the MLS for you.”

  “I was serious,” he said. “I just want to wait a while.”

  “So, what is this new assignment of yours? You never really told me what you do. You just said you worked down in this area. You’d think you were with the CIA or something.”

  “Well, I’m not,” Brett said.

  “Then what is your job, if I may ask?” she said.

  “I’m a special agent with the FBI.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” she said, brightening. “There’s nothing wrong with working for the bureau. Or are you on some sort of secret assignment you can’t talk about?” She raised her face with an expectant smile.

  “I’m working on a number of projects, and, now that you bring it up, I could really use your help on one of them.”

  “Use my help?” she said.

  “This is a new one for me. I’ve spent a lot of time in the field but not so much on the research side of things. But now I’m replacing another agent whose responsibility was learning—no not just learning, knowing all the important real estate moves of certain foreign interests in Washington.”

  “State Department coordinates all the embassy moves. I’m sure you know that,” she said with a slight wave of her hand.

  “Yes, of course, we know their role. But ours is different than theirs.”

  “Then what is your role, and what could it possibly have to do with me?”

  The waiter reappeared, tablet in hand. “Pardon the interruption. I just wanted to see if you had any questions.”

  Eleanor picked up her menu, glanced over it again, and said, “I’ll start with the farm greens with hearts of palm and toasted pine nuts. Then, let me see which fish would be good tonight. Yes, I’ll have the Adriatic brodetto of wild cod, mussels, and octopus.”

  “Excellent choice,” the waiter said. “And for you, sir?”

  “I don’t really need a first course. I’ll just nurse the ale here. But I guess I’ll go for the steak, medium rare. Okay?”

  “Of course, sir. Thank you,” he said, making a note and leaving them alone again.

  “Look, State facilitates the property searches for diplomats from all over the world. But we need to find out ahead of time when properties are changing hands.”

  “Why? Sales end up in public records anyway,” Eleanor said.

  “I know. I realize you’re new in Washington, but surely you can understand that certain countries have agents that keep an eye on us just as we keep an eye on them.”

  “And you want me to inform you whenever I line up a sale to a foreigner? I can’t believe this,” she said, draining her martini. “I’m not some sort of spy.”

  “Of course not,” he said in a calming voice. “But you could be a kind of consultant to the FBI. We already work with several top real estate agents in town. They’re known as Clandestine Human Sources, a CHS. Think of it as doing something for your country’s security. After all, that is our mission: keeping the country safe. I’m not asking you to break any laws. Nothing like that. I’m just asking for some information from time to time. That doesn’t sound too bad, does it?” he asked.

  She sighed heavily and looked like she was trying to decide something. “I have to admit that real estate agents talk to each other all the time. We trade listings, trade gossip, and this sounds like widening the circle a bit. I hadn’t heard about these CHS’s, but I guess they don’t sound too bad. You just caught me off guard, that’s all,” she said somewhat apologetically. “But you said only the top agents are CHS’s?”

  “Of course.” Looks like he might be able to close this deal after all. If he could just maintain a professional level of discourse and not let her get too personal, maybe he could learn something valuable as soon as tonight.

  “Here you are, ma’am. Your first course. Everything is edible, including the blossoms,” the waiter said, setting down a bowl. “Greens, rhubarb, nuts, and goat cheese sprinkled with lavender petals. Enjoy.” Brett looked over and was glad he was just drinking ale.

  Eleanor sampled the salad. “You’re missing out on a wonderful vinaigrette here,” she said. “But back to your proposition.”

  Brett hoped to hell she would stop using that language.

  “About letting you know before a contract is signed. Is that all you want to know?” she asked.

  “It would be especially helpful to know the moving dates as well.” He wasn’t about to tell her that before anyone moved into a new property, his team would be there planting a whole host of listening devices.

  “Well, now that I think about it, I’ve handled two international contracts in the last week. Burkina Faso is buying a ho
use for their commercial attaché, and then there is another property on Belmont in Kalorama. Third house from the corner at Massachusetts. I just sold it to a Russian official. It’s across the street from the Islamic center. Do you care about any of those sales?”

  “I didn’t know we had that much trade with Burkina Faso, but in general, yes. Information on several different countries could really help us out.” Brett said. “Especially Russian, Chinese, Middle Eastern countries, South American, certain South Africans. You’re smart; you can imagine where our interests would be. But if you’re not certain, just contact me and let me know the state of play on various deals.” He took a sip of ale. “About the Russian one on Belmont—do you know the buyer’s title?”

  “I believe he’s their new military attaché,” she said, taking another bite of her salad. “He’s been living at their embassy. But he mentioned a promotion and bringing his family over from Moscow. So, he’s getting the house.”

  “What about the move-in date?” Brett asked. “And is it occupied now?”

  “No. This one is vacant. The man who owned it is a foreign service officer who’s already gone overseas. He said FSOs often have to travel on short notice. I don’t know if the new owner is doing any renovations. He seemed to like it the way it was. Kitchen and bathrooms are in good shape. He’ll be closing right away and could move in a matter of days.”

  The waiter reappeared, removing Eleanor’s salad and serving their main courses. “Will there be anything else? Perhaps wine to complement the meal?”

  “I could use a glass of your Talley Vineyards Chardonnay,” Eleanor said. “Do you want something, Brett?”

  “I think I’m good, thanks,” he replied, eyeing the steak. Suddenly, his tension evaporated and he was ravenous. “This looks terrific.” He cut off a piece and tasted it. “Sure as hell beats Jack-in-the-Box.”

  Eleanor burst out laughing. “You know, word about this place has really gotten around. Members of Congress are in here all the time. McConnell, Pelosi—both sides of the aisle.”

  Must have bigger expense accounts than the FBI, Brett thought.

  But he suspected tonight’s tab would turn out to be worth every penny.

  SEVENTEEN

  THURSDAY PRE-DAWN;

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  “THIS NEW INFRA-RED LIGHT IS pretty handy,” Brett whispered, watching his locks team specialist fiddle with the bolt on the back door of the Kalorama house. She grunted in reply and continued her work. The two-story red brick house was uncomfortably close to its neighbors, but at least there were tall fences separating the properties. Brett said a silent prayer that no one next door would see or sense an intrusion.

  While he waited, he surveyed the rest of the area. It was a half block off the Massachusetts Avenue area known as Embassy Row. Extending several streets, this section of Washington was home to politicians, delegations, and interests from around the world, including the Islamic mosque right across the street Eleanor had mentioned.

  The side roads were usually packed with cars, especially when the faithful obeyed the muezzin’s call for Friday noon prayers. They would fill the elaborate lime stone building with its mosaic inscriptions of Qur’an verses written in blue Arabic script just above the five entry arches. Only one car was parked there now: a black sedan with two FBI watch officers inside. It was three o’clock in the morning.

  “Everything okay back there?” a watch officer spoke softly into his two-way radio.

  “Just made the lock,” Brett answered quietly. “Let us know if anyone shows up.”

  “Right,” he replied. “Good luck.”

  Brett, Dom, and several staff specialists pushed inside. Wearing night-vision googles, black pants, and black shirts, they moved silently through the kitchen and entered the dining room. Two agents carried their equipment upstairs.

  Rays of ambient light from a street lamp filtered through the windows that didn’t have shutters or drapery. Brett and Dom crouched along the periphery, studied the chair rail and chandelier, then focused on the baseboards and crown molding.

  “I’m glad Trevor let me join your little group. I want to make sure the new system’s installation is as easy as it should be. I’ll have one of the experts start in here,” Dom whispered as he crouched to open a case filled with small tools and dozens of tiny screw-type listening devices. “The screws last up to three years, but I think we should connect a couple of them to the electrical system for backup.”

  “Good idea,” Brett said in a low voice, motioning to the rest of his team to pick up their devices.

  Dom extended a small ladder he had carried in and leaned it against the wall. “We should install the first ones up here and place others across the room,” he said, pointing to a mitered corner of molding above crimson wallpaper. “They’ll look for these, but our guys at the apartment across the road won’t turn the system on until after their sweep team leaves,” he added.

  Brett stepped into a richly paneled study where he could easily imagine the Russian military attaché hosting meetings and, hopefully, conference calls. He surveyed the room and quietly discussed several locations for bugs with his crew. Thanks to Eleanor, this room could become a gold mine of information.

  As he watched his surveillance staff install the tiny screws, his conversations with the realtor started replaying in his mind. She had been fairly pushy whenever they talked. Always asking him prying questions that made him uncomfortable. It had been a while since someone had tried to forge a personal connection with him.

  Two years had passed since his wife had decided she wanted a more lavish lifestyle, asked for a divorce, and ran off with a bond salesman. She now lived in a mansion along Lake Michigan in Winnetka with a guy who probably came home for dinner. Brett envied her for knowing what she wanted, even as superficial as it was.

  His thoughts were interrupted by static on his two-way.

  “Got company out here. Stay low.”

  Brett quickly moved to the dining room and signaled Dom and the others to hit the floor. Then he crept up the stairway and motioned to the two agents in the bedrooms to get down as well. He continued to listen as the radio connection remained open.

  “D.C. cops,” he heard a watch agent say.

  “Crap,” another replied.

  Brett heard the sound of approaching footsteps over the feed. Then he heard another voice. “License and registration please.”

  “We’re not illegally parked,” the driver said.

  “No, but we got a call from a neighbor. Wants to know why you’re sitting out here snooping, or whatever you think you’re doing. What are you doing?”

  “Not breaking any laws that I can see, officer,” the driver said in a friendly tone.

  “No, but I did ask to see your license and registration.”

  “We’re FBI, keeping an eye on the mosque.”

  “At this hour?” the officer asked.

  “Yes. We’re part of a terrorism task force if you must know. And while this area is heavily patrolled by embassy security as well as your forces, we have a special reason to conduct our own routine surveillance of certain individuals. Here are my creds.”

  There was a long pause. Then Brett heard the officer say, “Just seems strange that you would be doing surveillance on an empty building.”

  “It’s not always empty,” the agent replied.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Finally, Brett heard footsteps shuffling away and the sound of a car driving off.

  “All clear,” the driver said with a sigh.

  EIGHTEEN

  THURSDAY MORNING;

  GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  OTTO WHEELED HIS RENTED ACURA into the parking lot in front of the Georgetown Holiday Inn on Wisconsin Avenue. He gazed up at the five-story rectangle that resembled Stalin-era construction. It clashed wonderfully with the traditional architecture of a little white church across the street. He couldn’t help but think the hotel looked like the box that church came i
n. Still, Vadim had told him it was in a good location and was reasonably priced. He failed to mention he could have booked Otto a room at the Four Seasons where he and Maksim always stayed, though.

  Otto noticed his accommodations were a grade below the place Vadim had rented for him in Naples. He also realized they would continue to decline every time he screwed up. Maybe he would surprise his uncles and get upgraded to a four-star hotel after he completed this assignment. Though, the more he thought about Vadim sending him around the country to kill someone, the more nervous and upset he got.

  He told himself again it was like gaining entry to the gangs in Russia. Otto didn’t really want to be like Vadim, but he wanted to be established and well connected like his uncle. He had only set up that C-4 in Florida because Vadim had told him they’d all go broke if that woman and others like her kept trying to shut down operations like theirs.

  At first it had seemed like a thrilling adventure ripped straight out of a movie script. And Vadim had assured him that an explosion at a big hotel would never be pinned on businessmen. Not with the number of terrorist attacks occurring throughout the world. Only potential or known terrorists would be implicated in the Naples bombing.

  Now everything was getting complicated. At least Otto was away from Vadim’s constant carping. Maybe he could just follow his target for a while and figure out how to keep Vadim off his back.

  He shrugged as he opened the trunk, lifted his suitcase out, pulled up the handle, and dragged it into the reception area. Wearing his usual black jeans and hoodie, he rolled the luggage across the beige tile floor to a long, sleek registration desk. He rested his elbows on a faux marble countertop just as an attractive, young Asian girl turned toward him and asked, “Checking in?”

  “Yes.” He gave her a passport and a card. Two of many he carried while traveling. Different sets for different countries.