The Eighth Sister

by Robert Dugoni

  “But not on paper.”

  “No, never on paper. On paper it looks like a legitimate enterprise. In actuality, it’s a means for the CIA to transfer funds to field officers working deep undercover all over the world. The company provides a cover for field officers by providing them with the legitimate employment they need to get into a particular country, and it allows the CIA to funnel them money. It would explain why LSR&C grew so quickly and had offices in Moscow, Dubai, and other foreign locations, and it would explain how an IRS investigation simply disappeared, and how the company’s offices could be cleaned out so thoroughly and so quickly. It could also explain why there are millions of dollars missing, as Traeger said. Those could be funds that were either funneled to field operatives or designated for that purpose when the company blew up.”

  “That’s where I’m having difficulty,” Sloane said. “If LSR&C was a CIA front, why would the IRS and the Securities and Exchange Commission get involved?”

  “Because the CIA doesn’t broadcast that these companies are proprietaries, not even to other government agencies,” Jenkins said. “To the IRS and the SEC, LSR&C was a legitimate company. I suspect that’s the reason why the IRS investigation ended so quickly. Goldstone must have made a phone call to Langley, and Langley called the IRS and told them to back off.”

  “So why didn’t they do the same thing with the SEC investigation?” Sloane said.

  “It could be that the SEC’s investigation was too far along, or that the story of a Ponzi scheme had already leaked to the media, and investors had become involved. Traeger said the Seattle Times reporter knew many of the company details before she set up the interviews.”

  “So what happens then to Goldstone and Traeger?” Jake asked. “Will the CIA protect them?”

  “Not likely. The fact that the offices were cleaned out is an indication the CIA is going to disassociate themselves from LSR&C and anyone who worked for it.”

  “Could that be what’s happening to you—the reason the CIA won’t even acknowledge you were reactivated?” Sloane asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jenkins said. “I think what happened to me goes a lot deeper. But from a practical standpoint, the CIA disassociating itself from the officers of the company is a further indication it will not acknowledge me. It means I have no contacts at LSR&C other than the officers being indicted for fraud and corruption.”

  “It also means that documents that could prove what you’re telling us are going to be very difficult to get. There wasn’t a scrap of paper in that entire office,” Sloane said.

  “What I can’t yet figure out is why Daugherty didn’t just arrest me when I was in his office. Why would he let me walk out?”

  “It could be the FBI wanted this news in the public domain to cast doubt on anything you have to say before you have the chance to say it,” Sloane said.

  “Guilty until proven innocent,” Jake said.

  “I’ve seen it done before,” Sloane said.

  “I’m also concerned about Traeger’s comment that there is money missing.”

  “Why?” Sloane asked.

  “Because if someone was selling secrets to the Russians, they’d need a way to wash that money. I saw it happen in Mexico City. Money paid to Russian double agents was washed through businesses, so it couldn’t be tied to the CIA.”

  “Emerson would have known that,” Sloane said.

  Jenkins nodded. “If LSR&C was a CIA proprietary, Emerson, or someone else, could have been passing money from the Russians through the company. It would be a rational reason why the company imploded now, after we went to the FBI. The implosion could be someone trying to get rid of documents before the FBI could get ahold of them and confirm there are millions of dollars missing.”

  “That would mean the leak worked for LSR&C?” Jake said. “Could it have been Goldstone? Could that be why he’s missing?”

  “I don’t think so,” Jenkins said. “But we need to find him and ask him about it. And I need to talk to Traeger and find out what they both knew about any of this. That isn’t going to be easy with the FBI escort watching my every move.”

  “If they’re also getting screwed, they might be looking for a way to save themselves,” Sloane said. “And if Goldstone knew LSR&C was a CIA front, and he has any documents to substantiate it, that gives your story of being recruited greater credibility.”

  “Which may be why Goldstone is missing,” Jenkins said. “And why I’m likely to be arrested for espionage. Someone is trying to discredit us both, and they’re well on their way to doing so.”

  52

  The following morning, Jenkins did his best to keep to routine for CJ’s sake. They walked down the rocky beach to the water’s edge with their fishing poles. Jenkins felt groggy from a lack of sleep. He’d been awake most of the night, filling in Alex on what had transpired, and working with David and Jake on what they could do. Jenkins’s further calls to Traeger had gone unanswered. He’d never had a cell number for Goldstone.

  Sloane and Jake had both left the office early that morning for Jenkins’s Camano Island home. Jenkins had taped the card with Carl Emerson’s phone number to the inside cover of a first edition of Moby Dick, so the card would not fall out if someone pulled the books from the shelves and fanned the pages. Sloane told Jenkins he also planned to call Daugherty and determine whether the FBI intended to arrest Jenkins. If so, Sloane wanted Jenkins to voluntarily turn himself in. Doing so would avoid the FBI arresting Jenkins in front of CJ and Alex, and it might play better in the news if Jenkins took an early stand that he wanted to vigorously defend himself against any charges.

  Puget Sound’s waves lapped against the rocks beneath clear blue skies that stretched above Vashon Island to the distant, snowcapped Olympic Mountains.

  “You think today’s our day?” Jenkins asked his son, as he did each day they’d fished. “Is today the day we catch a big salmon?”

  “I think so,” CJ said. The boy wasted no time. He clicked the bail open, brought the pole back, and flung his pink Buzz Bomb lure out over the water.

  Jenkins brought his pole back over his right shoulder to cast and noticed Chris Daugherty and three men in suits, coats, and sunglasses standing at the railing of the public easement. Daugherty nodded.

  “Dad! Dad, I got one,” CJ shouted.

  The tip of the boy’s pole had bent in an accentuated arc, and the fishing line was darting across the water’s surface. Jenkins dropped his pole and moved to help his son. “Loosen the drag,” he said. “That’s a big fish. Let him run a bit but keep him away from the boats. You don’t want to get your line tangled around a buoy line.”

  For fifteen minutes CJ was the picture of concentration, walking three paces to his left and three to his right, reeling when he dropped the tip of the pole, then gently pulling the tip up high. He’d have the fish close to shore, and it would take off running again, his drag whizzing.

  “You’re tiring him out, CJ.”

  “Dad, you take him,” the boy said, but Jenkins knew the request wasn’t motivated by fatigue but by fear that he might lose the fight.

  “He’s your fish,” Jenkins said. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. Walk him up the beach.” Jenkins picked up the net.

  CJ continued to reel as he backed up the beach. Jenkins saw the tail of a big fish slap and pound the water’s surface. “You’re doing great,” he said.

  “I think you better take it, Dad. He’s too big.”

  Jenkins bent to a knee and put his hand on his son’s back. “This is your fight. You don’t need anyone’s help.”

  CJ glanced at him, and when Jenkins smiled, the boy returned it.

  Other fishermen along the beach had taken their lines out of the water and cheered CJ on. “Reel him in, CJ. You got this one. Reel him in.”

  Jenkins looked up at the concrete platform. Daugherty and the other three agents had stepped down onto the beach, waiting. He knew they hadn’t come to talk, not that many. The FBI wasn�
�t going to give Jenkins the chance to turn himself in, or to tell the newspapers he was innocent.

  Jenkins turned his attention back to the water. “A little more, CJ. Walk back a little more.” He waded ankle deep into the water and shoved the net under the fish, lifting the salmon out of the water. The net was almost too small, the tail of the fish hanging over the side.

  “It’s a king,” Jenkins said. He guessed it weighed more than twenty pounds, maybe twenty-five.

  On shore, CJ stood over the fish, beaming with pride as the other fishermen congratulated him. Jenkins removed the hook and lure from the fish’s mouth and smiled at his son, seeing him through a cloud of tears. He took a small club and hit the fish once over the head, putting it out of any misery.

  “Hold it up, CJ,” some of the fishermen said. “Let’s get a picture for the paper.”

  CJ dropped his pole and grabbed his prize under one gill. He needed both hands to lift it. The fish stretched from CJ’s chin past his knees. This was more than just a fish. This was a trophy.

  “Can we show Mom?” CJ asked.

  Jenkins looked up to the house. Alex stood on the lawn in front of the Adirondack chairs. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She, too, had seen the four men.

  “I think she’s seen it,” Jenkins said. “And she’s so proud of you, she’s crying.”

  CJ turned and waved. Alex waved back.

  “Why don’t you take it up to her?” Jenkins said. “You and Mom can clean it together. I think she’d like that.”

  “Don’t you want to clean it?”

  “You know me,” Jenkins said, struggling to hold back his tears. “I’m not too good with fish guts. Go on. Take it up to your mom.”

  The smile vanished from CJ’s face when he saw the four men walking toward them. “I want you to come with me,” he said.

  “Go ahead, CJ. Everything is going to be fine, just like I told you. You believed me, right?”

  CJ nodded, but now tears streaked his cheeks.

  “Go on,” Jenkins said. “This is my fight now. You understand? And I’m going to win it, just like you won your fight today and landed your fish. Okay?”

  Slowly, reluctantly, CJ walked up the beach, occasionally looking back over his shoulder as he went. When he reached Alex, he dropped the fish on the lawn and buried his face in her stomach. Alex waved to Jenkins. He raised his hand and waved back, uncertain when, if ever, he’d have a morning like this one again.

  Jenkins laid the fishing poles on the lawn next to the tackle box. The other fishermen had returned to fishing, though a few continued to look over their shoulders at the four men in suits and ties.

  “I guess you’re not going to give me that chance to voluntarily turn myself in?” Jenkins said.

  “I’m sorry,” Daugherty said. “This wasn’t my decision.”

  “Thanks for not doing it in front of my kid.”

  “I have three children of my own, Mr. Jenkins. No sense making this harder than it is. We can walk up the easement. I have a car waiting.”

  “Then let’s go,” Jenkins said.

  Daugherty grimaced. “I’m going to have to put you in handcuffs. I’m just following orders.”

  “Can we at least wait until we get to the easement?”

  “Sure,” Daugherty said.

  At the easement, Jenkins turned and Daugherty handcuffed his hands behind his back. A news camera filmed Jenkins walking between two marshals, each gripping a bicep. When they reached Daugherty’s Ford, one of the marshals put a hand on Jenkins’s head, and he lowered into the back seat. Jenkins looked back over his shoulder. Several neighbors stood in their yards, watching the spectacle. Thankfully, Alex and CJ were not among them.

  53

  Daugherty brought Jenkins to the FBI field office to be booked and processed. He was put in a locked conference room and sat waiting. When the clock in the room neared 5:00 p.m., Jenkins figured he’d be spending the night in the federal jail, but when Daugherty and the three marshals returned, Daugherty said, “Time to be arraigned.”

  Jenkins looked at the clock on the wall. “It’s after five.”

  “Judge Harden is waiting,” Daugherty said, not elaborating.

  “What about David Sloane?”

  “He’ll meet you in court,” Daugherty said.

  They took Jenkins down the elevator to a car waiting in the garage. At the US District Court on Stewart Street, they pulled to the curb and Jenkins understood the reason for the long delay. A crowd of camera crews and reporters stood in the courtyard leading to the glass-and-copper building entrance. The delay had given the FBI time to alert the media and to get out their side of the story about the arrest.

  Guilty until proven innocent.

  A marshal opened the back door and helped Jenkins step out. A second marshal moved quickly to his right side. Two others filled in behind them. No one stood in front of Jenkins, which gave the cameras an unobstructed view. When they reached the stairs beside the rectangular wishing pool, Jenkins looked down to navigate the steps and immediately heard the whir and click of cameras. The photographers had waited until he’d lowered his head, looking defeated and guilty.

  The marshals escorted him into a cavernous courtroom with ample pews already filling with reporters. Behind the railing, David Sloane waited at the counsel table. On the left stood a team of four lawyers—three men and a woman in dark-blue or gray suits.

  When Jenkins reached the counsel table a marshal removed his handcuffs.

  “How are you doing?” Sloane asked.

  Jenkins shrugged. “I’m hungry. These guys are worse than the Russians. They haven’t given me any food all day. You spoke with Alex?”

  “She wanted to come. I told her not to.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I guess we know now why Daugherty didn’t arrest you the other day,” Sloane said. “They were getting the media lined up. You’ve been all over the news and social media. They shipped out press materials before they even arrested you.”

  “Do we know what I’m going to be charged with?”

  Sloane shook his head. “The federal prosecutor hasn’t told me. I assume we’ll find out in a moment.”

  “Just get me out on bail so I can go home to my family.” Jenkins looked to the government attorneys to his left. “Who among the gaggle is the lead?”

  “The woman,” Sloane said. “Maria Velasquez. And don’t let her diminutive size fool you. We’ve sparred twice, and both times she put up a hell of a fight. She isn’t dishonest, but she isn’t forthcoming either. If I don’t ask for it in discovery, she won’t give it to us. It gets worse,” Sloane added.

  “Better to pull off that Band-Aid just once,” Jenkins said.

  “They found Mitchell Goldstone,” Sloane said.

  “Dead?”

  “He’s alive, but they found him in a hotel room downtown with his wrists slit and a bottle of prescription painkillers. How well did you know him? Would he try something like this?”

  Jenkins shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t know him that well.”

  “The news is saying Goldstone absconded with money he stole from investors and is facing life in prison.”

  “We figured that argument out ourselves, didn’t we?” Jenkins said. “I don’t buy that either. It’s too easy. Too convenient.”

  “And Randy Traeger is cooperating with investigators. I called and spoke to his attorney. Traeger claims he had no knowledge of the Ponzi scheme, and his attorney said he has no knowledge that LSR&C was a CIA proprietary, said he didn’t even know the term.”

  “He’s washing his hands of the entire sordid affair.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Any idea why they waited until five o’clock to arraign me?” Jenkins asked. “Other than the media?”

  “Judge Harden was finishing up a trial and the government wants him,” Sloane said. “He’s a former federal prosecutor with a reputation as a hard-ass who does things his way.”

  T
he bailiff entered the courtroom from a door to the right of the elevated bench and called out, “All rise, the Honorable Joseph B. Harden presiding.”

  Jenkins thought Judge Harden looked a bit like Abe Lincoln, a tall, strapping man with jet-black hair, graying at the temples. He entered the courtroom in his black robe, sat at his elevated desk, and picked up several sheets of paper, reading as the clerk called out the case number for the United States Government v. Charles William Jenkins.

  After a brief pause, Harden said, “State your appearances, please.”

  The gaggle of attorneys on the left side of the courtroom started, with Velasquez speaking last.

  “David Sloane for the defendant,” Sloane said.

  “Has your client had the opportunity to read the charges against him, Mr. Sloane?” Harden asked.

  “No, Your Honor. Nor have I.”

  “Then I will do so now.” Harden read the arraignment word for word. Jenkins was charged with two counts of espionage, two counts of passing classified secrets to the Russians for remuneration, and one count of conspiracy. The government also charged him with disclosing classified information, including the identities of two CIA assets, leading to their deaths. Though Harden did not say it, Jenkins knew he was facing a life sentence.

  “How does the defendant plead?”

  “Not guilty,” Jenkins said.

  “Very well. Mr. Jenkins, you will be handed over to the US Marshals Service until such time as you are tried.”

  “The defense wishes to discuss bail,” Sloane said.

  “The government opposes,” Velasquez stated just as quickly. “We believe the defendant to be a flight risk.”

  “The defendant is married and the father of a nine-year-old boy,” Sloane said. “His wife is pregnant with their second child. She is currently on bed rest from pregnancy complications and is due any day. Mr. Jenkins has no desire to be anywhere but with his family and here in court to defeat these charges.”

  Velasquez looked to one of the attorneys. He handed her a file. “Your Honor, we have a timeline of the defendant’s most recent travels outside the country. We’d like to present it to the court.”