The President Killed His Wife (A Rogan Bricks Thriller Book 1)

by Steve Richer

  Consulting her notes, Shiloh cleared her throat. “And these people threatening you, they are the Joplin Initiative?”

  That’s as much as they’d been able to find out before leaving the restaurant. The Joplin Initiative was the corporation who had gotten the lucrative development deal.

  “Who else? They’re the consortium of companies that have been joined together for this project.”

  “Are they really building this propulsion system or is it just a scam?”

  “A little of both.”

  “What do you mean?” Rogan asked.

  “They have facilities out in California. They have engineers and labs and prototypes, but between you and me? They’ve probably spent only a third of the money on the project itself. Just enough to show basic results. Your guess is as good as mine as to where the rest of the money went.”

  “Jesus…”

  “That’s all I know,” Gelhausen said, standing up. “I’m not saying anymore without a lawyer. My life expectancy just got cut in half because I’ve talked to you. Besides, it’s too late.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I already signed the endorsements. It goes in front of the Senate Appropriations Subcommittee Monday morning. They already won.”

  Chapter 40

  Soon after they were driving out of Alexandria. Staying with the admiral seemed futile. There was no sense in endangering him further. On the back of his mind, Rogan knew that he should have pressed further, that was how a proper investigation was supposed to be contacted.

  On the other hand, he wasn’t sure this was a proper investigation anymore.

  If this faction had penetrated the levels of government as much as he thought it had – on a global scale – then justice was unlikely to ever be served in the traditional way. What was the point of getting a laundry list of charges against people who would never even appear before a judge?

  After the attempts on his life, this shit had become personal. Rogan had no idea what would happen next but he was aware that he was willing to bend a few rules on the way. The first order of business was finding who exactly was behind the Joplin Initiative.

  “I don’t have much,” Shiloh said from the passenger seat.

  She had the laptop tethered to a cell phone and was searching the Internet as it was more convenient than browsing on her smartphone.

  “You don’t make $15 billion of Uncle Sam’s money by not existing.”

  “I’m not saying they don’t exist, I’m saying it’s going to take a little more than a Google search. The Joplin Initiative has a website but it’s rather bare-bones with the same preserving maximum readiness in combat environment bollocks we found out this morning. They have an address in Delaware, pages upon pages of technobabble and corporate drivel, but nothing concrete.”

  His eyes still on the road, Rogan said, “Search through Hoovers.”

  He was referring to the commercial database he often used in his own official investigations. It was good start to find out who owned a company and it was a lot faster than checking county registrars.

  “Got anything?” he asked after a few minutes.

  “Nothing earth shattering. The Joplin Initiative is made up of four corporations and none of them stand out.”

  “You mean Microsoft isn’t part of this?”

  Shiloh snorted. “Not even Boeing or General Dynamics. Let’s see, we have JWO and Associates, Ware-Robinson Engineering, the Clonmel Analytics Group, and the Hyman Bedford Foundation. Not exactly Fortune 500 representatives.”

  “It will take some time to sort out who’s behind these companies, especially if they’re registered outside the country. I had a kiddie porn case once I had to trace through the Netherlands, Greece, Russia, Japan, before landing a big fat goose egg in Estonia. I’ll have to mobilize my troops.”

  “And I have an idea about what to do on my end,” Shiloh said.

  “Oh really? Care to share?”

  She did and he was impressed.

  “So go to the FBI and I’ll take the car to the Embassy of Kazakhstan.”

  The plan was bold and it gave Rogan life again. He put the classic rock radio back on and couldn’t help bobbing his head to Boston’s More Than a Feeling, making Shiloh chuckle next to him.

  When they got to 4th Street, Rogan pulled to the curb and they both got out so she could get behind the wheel. As they passed each other, Rogan grabbed her by the waist and pulled her to him. Without warning he kissed her hard. Before she could protest he let her go.

  “What was that for?”

  “A husband is entitled to kiss his wife, isn’t he?”

  “Technically, our marriage was a sham, fake names and fake deaths and what have you.”

  “Technically, I don’t care, sweetheart.”

  He winked at her and headed for the building. Everything was going so damn fast that Rogan didn’t know how he felt or how he was supposed to feel. He was angry at having been deceived but this was trumped by meeting the love of his life once more after five years.

  Maybe that was a sham as well but for the first time in an eternity it was something that felt right.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  It was a new crew on security duty in the building so Rogan didn’t feel like he had to explain himself and his absence. He went through the checkpoint, went upstairs, and headed toward the conference room which had become ground zero for the most baffling investigation in US history.

  Since it was Saturday, they were on a reduced staff. It also didn’t help that the FBI didn’t have any leads. What was the point in having 20 agents if they were only chasing their tails?

  On top of that, the working theory was that the President had suffered a mental breakdown. From their perspective, there wasn’t much to investigate. There were only three people around the table, including Gary Nero.

  “Rogan! How are you, man?”

  He stood up and came to awkwardly shake his hand. The sight of him made Rogan feel better. It was good to have a familiar face after all that had happened this week. The kid was wearing jeans and a Los Angeles Angels sweatshirt.

  “Casual Saturday, is it, Gary?”

  “No… It’s just… I thought…”

  “Calm down, I’m just messing with you,” Rogan said as he unbuttoned his pea coat and revealed that he was also not wearing a suit today.

  “Oh, right.”

  “Love your shirt. You do know that your team has a stupid name, yes? The Los Angeles Angels literally translates into The The Angels Angels.”

  Gary was stammering, looking for a reply, and the other agents sitting down and observing them were struggling not to laugh.

  Rogan could never get enough of his probie’s expression but now it was time to work.

  “Guys, I think I have a lead. Long story short, there’s a government contract that could be tied to all of this. The consortium involved is called The Joplin Initiative and I’ve narrowed down the companies that make it up. Now I need you guys to find out who owns these companies.”

  There were nods around the table and Gary sat down again eagerly. Meanwhile, Rogan produced his phone, brought up the file, and e-mailed it to the other agents. No one questioned the purpose of this and how it fit into the psychiatric angle.

  “This is a priority, you understand? Bring in your people, outsource this shit, anything so that we crosscheck records everywhere in the country and offshore if we have to.”

  “You got it!”

  Rogan took off his coat, ready to get to work himself manning the phones, when the freakishly tall Special Agent in Charge walked in.

  “Where the hell have you been, Bricks?”

  “It’s wonderful to see you too, Jason. How are the kids? How’s the latest season of Duck Dynasty going? I missed a couple of episodes.”

  “Don’t start that shit with me! You’re brought in from across the country, you’re supposed to lead this investigation, and you disappear. How do you thing that looks?”

  “
It looks like maybe you should rethink your aftershave, don’t you think?”

  “You son of a…”

  Rogan touched his elbow and led him out of the conference room. Vanstedum was bristling and couldn’t resist following.

  “Did you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Was that your plan? Having Cass Carranza partner up with me so she could keep tabs?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Bricks. You went AWOL and now you’re talking nonsense. For some reason the Director likes you and I’m not supposed to question anything you do. Are you fucking him? Is that it, the two of you are having a love affair?”

  Rogan burst out laughing. “The Hoover tradition, is that it?” He became serious again and came closer to his superior. “Some really fucked up stuff is going on and I don’t know if you’re involved. I’m gonna find out soon enough. But until then, stay out of my way and let me do my job. After what happened to me this week I don’t trust anyone, least of all you.”

  Vanstedum didn’t reply and it cemented his distrust of him. He had to be involved, it was the only thing that made sense. It explained Cass keeping an eye on him, following him to New York, hindering the investigation.

  And then he thought of her partner.

  “Where’s Justin Wilkinson?” Rogan asked.

  “No idea, called in sick.”

  “The biggest case in the FBI’s history and he calls in sick? Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”

  Again, the SAC didn’t have an answer. This made him even more suspicious in Rogan’s eyes. Hell, everybody was suspicious. If this conspiracy went as deep as it seemed, the Pope could be in on it and he wouldn’t have been surprised.

  “You’re gonna grace us with your presence now, Bricks?”

  “I’m gonna do my job. Count on a lot of overtime from the guys in there,” Rogan said, pointing his finger toward the conference room. “They’re tracking records and if I hear anybody interferes with that I’m going straight up to Hephner.”

  Rogan started walking away, toward the elevators.

  “Where are you going now?”

  “I need to speak with the President again.”

  Chapter 41

  Shiloh parked the car after the short drive north and headed to the Embassy of Kazakhstan. The building was more akin to an Ivy League campus structure than an accurate representation of central Asian architecture. It was a red-brick building with a hipped roof, looking almost like a medieval castle which had been turned into a frat house.

  She smiled at the lack of security. This was definitely not a fortress like its American counterparts. She crossed the sidewalk, climbed the five concrete steps which were blocked by an unlocked wrought-iron gate, and headed toward the entrance. Again, it was unlocked.

  Inside, the house had an old-world feeling with rich woodwork, high ceilings, and a grand staircase which was arresting. Shiloh saw some items on display, a sort of small exhibit. Coming nearer, she saw that it was to honor the fact that the house had once belonged to the 27th American Vice President, James S. Sherman.

  “Good afternoon,” a woman said in shaky English. “Can I help you?”

  “Good afternoon,” Shiloh replied in Russian.

  The receptionist’s face lit up and she also switched to Russian. “Welcome to Kazakhstan. Unfortunately, consular services are not available on the weekends. Tours of Sherman House are available on appointment.”

  The British operative smiled even broader and came closer to the woman, turning up the charm.

  “I’m afraid I’m not here for the sightseeing. I’m Syrbar.”

  The receptionist froze. Syrbar was shorthand for the Kazakh Foreign Intelligence Service.

  “Oh.”

  “It’s very important that I get access to a secure line.”

  “The defense attaché is not currently in. You understand, it’s Saturday…”

  “I usually deal with the Third Secretary.” Shiloh said that in a whisper, hoping to convey how secret this information was and how she wasn’t supposed to say this much. “It is crucial that I get a secure line to the Akorda.”

  Mentioning the Presidential Palace had the desired effect of impressing the woman.

  “I’ll call Mr. Ibragimbekov.”

  She hurried away back to her desk and got on the phone. She spoke in hushed tones and kept glancing at Shiloh. Finally, she hung up. Before she had time to tell her someone was coming, the man descended the stairs, taking the steps two by two.

  Mr. Ibragimbekov was young, probably in his mid-20s but looking much younger with pimples dotting his face.

  “I am Sergei Ibragimbekov, assistant to the Second Secretary for political affairs.”

  Shiloh almost rolled her eyes. This guy was a junior clerk on weekend duty and the most classified file he’d probably ever seen was likely to have been a crop forecast. She decided to humor him.

  “Thank you for coming down so fast! I’m in danger and I need your help.”

  “You are Syrbar?” he whispered.

  Shiloh nodded and looked around nervously. “I need direct access to the capital, it’s urgent!”

  “The Akorda?”

  “I can’t tell you anything, you understand, but we have Arystan members in danger. We need to act, fast!”

  Mentioning the elite commando unit of the intelligence service made the emergency sink in.

  “Of course, come with me.”

  She followed him through a metal detector manned by a security guard in a cheap suit – she had left her weapon in the car – and then they both went up the stairs to the second floor. Again, there was nothing high-security about this building. There was probably no high-level intelligence on the premises either.

  “In here,” he said as they reached a dark oak door.

  He punched in a code on the keypad and they went inside. It’s was just a regular office with filing cabinets, a desk, computer, and a window opening on a small parking lot.

  He went behind the desk and dialed a phone number. He was nervous, probably never having had this level of responsibility on his shoulders. He switched on the scrambler, making the line secure, and Shiloh gave him an extension number. He stopped breathing when the person on the other end spoke.

  “Private office of the President of Kazakhstan. Can I help you?”

  Shiloh took the phone from the young man. “I need to speak with Rinat Ivanovich right this instant.”

  “And who…”

  “Tell him this is his lady friend from Dubai.”

  “It is Saturday night and…”

  “I won’t repeat myself, comrade. It’s about Bill 736 and it’s the most important thing you will ever do in your career. Get him on a videoconference with this number right now.”

  “Uh, just a moment.”

  The line clicked as she was put on hold. Ibragimbekov was confused and scared by her tone of voice.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m the woman who’s gonna save the future of your country, Sergei. Now set up the videoconference, will you?”

  He was too puzzled to decline and went about turning on the monitor and the sophisticated Cisco videoconference system. It took almost ten minutes but the diminutive leader of Kazakhstan soon filled the screen.

  “You!” he said when he saw Shiloh.

  “Yes, it’s me. I’m delighted by your reaction. I love having this effect on men.” She turned to the young clerk. “You can leave us alone now, please.”

  Ibragimbekov was clearly impressed she had gotten the president of his country on the line, she had to be important. He nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

  “What do you want?”

  “Are you still being a naughty boy, Rinat? Where are you right now, is that your bedroom?”

  “Get to the point.”

  “I hope that’s your wife under the covers.” She squinted and could just make out the bed beyond him. The shape was odd. “You sly devil! There are two wo
men in your bed.”

  “Look, Monday morning I will definitely sign Bill 736, just as I promised.”

  “That’s why I called. Forget it.”

  “What?”

  “You’re off the hook, you don’t have to sign it anymore. You don’t have to sign away the rights to the mineral deposits in the Mangystau region.”

  “Oh thank heaven!”

  “But only if you do something for me first, Rinat.”

  “Anything!”

  “Remember the last time we saw each other?” Shiloh again. “You said you had files on my people. Remember that?”

  “I will destroy these files, I swear! I will forget the names and…”

  “I don’t want you to destroy these files. I want you to send me everything you have right now. You do this for me and you’ll never have to deal with these people ever again. Your wife will never have to know about your extracurricular sexual escapades.”

  The President was caught off guard and then he smiled.

  Chapter 42

  Former President of the United States Christopher Rudd was a mess. His orange prison uniform was a size too large, hanging on him like curtains, and the man was gaunt, having lost weight in the last few days. Furthermore, they hadn’t allowed him near a razor blade so he had the beginnings of a gruffy salt-and-pepper beard which was decidedly out of character for someone who had once been the most powerful man in the world.

  Rogan entered the interrogation room and took a moment to observe the President. He wasn’t sure what he thought about him. He was at the center of a conspiracy, essentially the victim, but he couldn’t escape the fact that Rudd had killed his wife in cold blood.

  “Hey, Chris. How are you holding up?”

  At that, the President was taken aback. Once a military officer, a senator, and finally the Commander-in-Chief, he had always been addressed by a title rather than by his name. Rogan enjoyed seeing him shaken up.