“No question,” I said.
“I’ve already impressed upon Marshall the importance of not divulging to the FBI anything about Mercury that’s not germane to their investigation.”
“Why keep it secret from the FBI?”
“Nick, you know how Washington works. If it ever gets out that ten billion dollars in military black-budget funds has been lost because it was being privately invested—dear Lord, we’d be throwing buckets of chum upon the water. The sharks will come for miles. You were a soldier. Can you imagine what damage such a revelation would do to our nation’s defense?”
“Not really.”
He blinked owlishly behind his horn-rimmed glasses. “You don’t understand what a huge scandal would result?”
“Oh, sure. It’ll be huge, all right. Lots of people are going to wonder how you stole all that money from the Pentagon.”
He smiled uneasily.
111.
Because I’d finally learned the real story in a hotel suite at the Mandarin.
“You must realize,” Roman Navrozov had said, “how frustrating it is to sit on the sidelines with billions of dollars and billions of euros at my disposal, ready to invest in American industry, and yet every single one of my deals is blocked by the U.S. government. While America sells itself off to every country in the world. Including its sworn enemies.”
“I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration,” I’d said.
“Ten percent of America is owned by the Saudis, do you know this? And look what they did to your World Trade Center. The Communist Chinese own most of your Treasury bonds. Some of your biggest defense contractors are owned by foreign conglomerates. But when I try to buy an American steel company or an energy company or a computer company, your government refuses. Some anonymous bureaucrats in the Treasury Department say it would harm national security.”
“So you wanted the Mercury files for leverage? To force the U.S. government to rubber-stamp all of your deals?”
He shrugged.
“Then there must be something in the Mercury files that a lot of powerful people want kept secret.”
He shrugged.
“Let’s hear it,” I said.
NOW, I leaned back in my fragile antique wooden chair. It creaked alarmingly. Schechter winced.
“Turning a slush fund into a hedge fund to funnel secret payments to some of the most powerful people in America for three decades,” I said. “That’s genius.”
I glanced pointedly at his ego wall. At all those photographs of him doing the grip-and-grin with former secretaries of Defense and secretaries of State and four former vice presidents and even a few former presidents. “But what was the point? Your own self-aggrandizement? What could you possibly have wanted? How much influence did you need to buy? For what?”
“You don’t have the slightest idea, do you?”
“About what?”
He paused for a long time, examined his immaculate desktop, looked back up. “You’re probably too young to remember that there once was a time when the best and the brightest went into government work because it was the right thing to do.”
“Camelot, right?”
“Now where do the graduates of our top colleges end up? Law schools and investment banks. They go where the money is.”
“Can you blame them?”
“Precisely. The CEO of Merrill Lynch pockets a hundred million dollars for driving his company into the ground. The guy who almost destroyed Home Depot gets two hundred and ten million dollars just to go away. Yet a hardworking public servant who helps run the fifteen-trillion-dollar enterprise called the United States of America can’t afford to send his kids to college? A general who’s fought all his life to keep our country safe and strong spends his retirement in tract housing in Rockville, Maryland, scraping by on a pension of a hundred thousand bucks a year?”
“This is good,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a better rationalization for graft.”
“Graft?” Schechter said, red-faced, eyes glittering. “You call it graft? How about calling it retention pay? Stock options in America? The whole point of Mercury is to make sure that the best and the brightest aren’t punished for being patriots. Yes, Nick, we diverted the money and built a goddamn moat. We guaranteed that our greatest public servants would never have to worry about money. So they could lead lives of genuine public service. This sure as hell is about national security. It’s about rewarding heroes and statesmen and patriots—instead of bankers and swindlers who’d sell out their country for two basis points.”
I could see the veins on his neck pulsing.
“Well,” I said softly, “you make a good argument. And I’m sure you’ll have the opportunity to make it before a jury of your peers.”
“I’ll deny we ever spoke about it,” he said with a cruel smile.
“Don’t bother,” I said. I got up and opened the door to his office. Gordon Snyder and Diana Madigan were standing there, flanking Marshall Marcus. Behind them were six guys in FBI Windbreakers. “Marshall is cooperating.”
He shook his head. “You son of a bitch.” He pulled open his desk drawer and one of the FBI guys shouted, “Freeze!”
But it wasn’t a gun Schechter was after. It was a breath mint, which he popped in his mouth.
“Gentlemen,” he said with a beatific smile. “Please enter.”
He didn’t rise, though, which wasn’t like him.
“David, I’m sorry,” Marcus said.
I turned and saw that Schechter was staring at me, his eyes fixed. His mouth was foaming. I could smell almonds.
I shouted, “Anyone have a medical kit?”
A couple of the FBI agents rushed in. One of them checked Schechter’s pulse, at his wrist and on his neck. Then he shook his head.
David Schechter liked to brag that he always had all the angles figured out.
I guess he was right after all.
112.
Early in the fall I took Diana out for a drive. She wanted to see the New England foliage. I’ve never cared much about foliage, though the fiery red maples were impressive.
She had no itinerary in mind; she just wanted to drive. I suggested New Hampshire, where the leaves were further along.
Neither one of us spoke about the last time we’d been in New Hampshire together.
After we were on the road a while, I said, “I have something for you.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Look in the glove box.”
She gave me a puzzled look, then popped open the glove compartment and took out a small box, badly gift-wrapped.
She held it up and pretended to admire the wrapping job. “Aren’t you a regular Martha Stewart,” she teased.
“Not my skill set,” I said. “Obviously.”
She tore it open, gasped.
“I don’t believe it,” she said, staring at the octagonal black perfume bottle. “Where the hell did you get Nombre Noir? And a full ounce? And sealed? Are you out of your mind?”
“I meant to give it to you years ago,” I said.
She reached over and gave me a kiss. “I’m almost out, too. I thought I’d never have it again. Last time I checked eBay, a half-ounce of Nombre Noir was selling for more than seven hundred dollars. Where’d you get this?”
“Remember my friend the Jordanian arms dealer?”
“Samir?”
“Right. Sammy found it for me. One of his clients is a sheikh in Abu Dhabi who had a stockpile in an air-conditioned storeroom.”
“Thank Samir for me.”
“Oh, I did. Believe me, I did. You’d have thought I asked him for a nuclear warhead. But by the time he handed it to me, you were gone.”
“You could have sent it.”
“I don’t trust the mail,” I lied.
Diana once explained to me that Nombre Noir was one of the greatest perfumes ever created. But it was impossible to find now. Apparently the company that made it ended up losing money on each bottle. Then the
European Union, in its infinite wisdom, decided to ban one of its main ingredients, something called damascone, because it causes sun sensitivity in some tiny percentage of people. The company recalled every bottle they could and then destroyed each one by running a steamroller over them.
As soon as she told me it was impossible to find, of course, I made a point of tracking some down.
“Well, that serves me right for leaving without letting you know,” she said.
“Yeah, so there.”
“So, um, speaking of which? They’ve offered me a supervisory special agent job in Miami,” she said.
“Hey, that’s a big deal,” I said with all the enthusiasm I could muster. “Congratulations. Miami could be great.”
“Thanks.”
“Hard to turn down a job like that,” I said.
The awkward silence seemed to go on forever.
“What about Gordon Snyder’s job?”
Snyder’s superiors weren’t so happy about his planting an unapproved, off-the-books tracking device in my BlackBerry and then trying to cover his tracks by claiming that a confidential informant had tipped him off to Mauricio Perreira’s location. He’d been demoted and transferred to Anchorage.
I’d heard he could see Russia from his desk.
“Nah, they’re looking for an organized crime specialist for that slot. So, Nico. Mind if I ask you something about Roman Navrozov?”
“Okay.”
“That helicopter crash in Marbella? A bit too convenient, don’t you think?”
I shrugged. A deal was a deal.
“Let me guess. Putin’s guys have been trying to get him for years. But he never made it easy for them. So you struck a bargain with one of your ex-KGB sources. Some sort of trade for information. It isn’t like what happened to Navrozov was a tragedy. Some might even call it justice. You probably figured it was win-win.”
“Or maybe it was just a cracked rotor blade, like they say.”
She gave me a look. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”
After a long moment, I said, “Sometimes, stuff just happens.”
“Hmph.”
“You see that story in the Globe a couple days ago about the accountant who was crushed to death by a falling filing cabinet? There’s no safe place. No guarantees.”
“I didn’t mean what I said about marrying a CPA.”
“No?”
“No. I’d settle for a database administrator.”
“I mean it. You can swathe yourself in five layers of security, but your luxury helicopter is still going to come down over Marbella. I don’t know about you, but I’d much rather see the bullet that’s coming for me.”
We both stared straight ahead for a while.
“You know,” she said, “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but we’re about to make an arrest in the Mercury case.”
“I was wondering if that would ever happen.”
The weeks had turned into months, and not a single one of Marshall Marcus’s “investors” had even been brought in for questioning. None of their names had surfaced in the press.
Marshall Marcus remained at liberty, since he’d cooperated fully with the FBI—and his new lawyers were still negotiating with the SEC. There were a lot of investors out there howling for his head. He’d certainly face some kind of prison time.
But apart from that, it was like nothing had happened.
Call me cynical, but I couldn’t help but wonder whether a quiet call had been placed to the attorney general. Maybe a whispered aside over steaks at Charlie Palmer’s in D.C.
“It’s complicated,” she said. “We’re talking about some extremely prominent individuals—senior government officials, elder statesmen. As the saying goes, if you shoot at a king, you must kill him.”
“But you have names and account numbers…”
“Suddenly there are a whole lot of very nervous people at the top of the Justice Department who insist on signing off on everything. They want us to cross every t and dot every i. They want everything completely nailed down before they’ll go ahead with such a high-profile corruption sweep. Something like this will destroy careers and reputations and, you know, shake the faith of the country in our elected officials.”
“Sure wouldn’t want to do that,” I said dryly.
“The Criminal Division is insisting on all sorts of bank records from around the world, including from offshore banks that won’t cooperate in a hundred years.”
“In other words, nothing’s going to happen.”
She was silent. “Like I said, it’s complicated.”
“You don’t find this frustrating?”
“I just keep my head down and do the best job I can.”
“So who are you about to arrest?”
“General Mark Hood.”
I gave her a sideways glance, then looked back at the road. “On what grounds?”
“Embezzlement, fraud … It’s a long charge sheet. He was the one who supervised the illegal transfer of covert funds out of the Pentagon’s black budget.”
I nodded. “I figured as much.”
“You were on to him, weren’t you? Before he fired you?”
“I guess so. Though I didn’t know it at the time.”
For several miles neither of us spoke.
Maybe, I thought, the only true justice was karma.
Take Taylor Armstrong. She claimed that when Mauricio Perreira pressured her into setting him up with her BFF, Alexa, she really had no idea what was going to happen. I believed her. Not that it made her any less narcissistic, sleazy, and underhanded.
Shortly after we last talked, Taylor was pulled out of school and sent to a place in western Massachusetts that specialized in “novel treatments” for students with severe behavioral problems, controversial for its use of electric shock as an “aversive.” It made the Marston-Lee Academy look like the Canyon Ranch Spa.
The place also required weekly counseling sessions with parents, which wasn’t going to be a problem, since her father, Senator Armstrong, had announced he was leaving public service in order to spend more time with his family.
I saw the exit sign and hit the turn signal.
“Where are we going?”
“Ever seen the Exeter campus?”
“No. Why would I…” Then, realizing, she said, “You think she’s ready to see you?”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
*
DIANA WAITED for me in the car. She thought it was best for me to have some time alone with Alexa.
The girls’ field hockey team was practicing on the dazzling green artificial turf field in the football stadium at the far end of the campus. I knew nothing about field hockey, but it looked like a scrimmage. It was a cluttery game, hard to understand at first. The whistle was constantly sounding. A few of the girls really stood out, one in particular, and when she turned I saw it was Alexa.
She was wearing a headband, her hair tied back. Her arms were tan and muscular, her legs long and lean.
Her blue mouth guard gave her a fierce appearance, but she looked healthy and happy.
The coach blew her whistle and shouted, “Let’s get some water,” and the girls all popped out their mouth guards: a precise, automatic gesture. Some tucked the mouthpieces under the tops of their sports bras; some slipped them into their shin guards. They shouted and talked loudly and squealed as they straggled toward the drinking fountain. A couple of them hugged Alexa—I’d forgotten how much more affectionate girls are than guys at that age—and laughed about something.
Then she turned, as if she’d sensed my presence, and caught my eye. She spoke quickly to one of her teammates and approached reluctantly.
“Hey, Nick.”
“You’re really good, you know that?”
“I’m okay. I like it. That’s the main thing.”
“You play hard. You’re tough. Fearless, even.”
She gave a quick, nervous laugh. “Gift of fear, right?”
; “Right. So I just wanted to say hi and make sure everything’s okay.”
“Oh, um, okay, thanks. Yeah, everything’s cool. It’s good. I’m…” She looked longingly over at her teammates. “It’s kinda not the best time, is that … that okay?”
“No problem.”
“I mean, like, you didn’t drive all the way up here just to see me or anything, right? Like, I hope not.”
“Not at all. I was in the area.”
“Business or something?”
“Yeah.”
“So, yeah. Um…” She gave me a little wave. “I gotta go. Thanks for coming by. Nice to see you.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You too.”
I understood: Just seeing me brought on all kinds of dark and troubling emotions. I’d forever be associated with a nightmare. I made her uncomfortable. There were things in the subbasement of her mind she couldn’t yet deal with. Her way of recovering was to try to forget.
We all have our ways of coping.
As she returned to the field, her stride got looser. I could see the tension leave her body. One of her friends made a crack, and she gave a quick grin, and the coach blew her whistle again.
I stood there watching for a few minutes longer. She played with a fluid grace, almost balletic. Once I began to understand how the game worked, it was sort of exciting. She charged down the field, dished it off to another player in a give-and-go, and kept on going. Suddenly everything was happening too fast to follow. Just as she entered the striking circle she somehow got the ball back, and then I could see what all of her teammates saw: that the goalkeeper had been fooled and Alexa had a clear shot, and she smiled as she flicked the ball up in the air and it soared toward the goal.
She’d take it from here.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I wish I could quote the late Spike Milligan: “I am not going to thank anybody—because I did it all myself.” Unfortunately, in my case, this is not accurate.
I just did the hard part.
But I did turn repeatedly to a small group of victims—er, technical advisers. My varsity squad of sources: Jeff Fischbach, amazing forensic technologist and real-life character out of The Matrix who knows a scary amount about electronic evidence and cell-phone tracking; Stuart Allen, preeminent forensic audio expert who shares my taste in good wine and bad jokes; and, again, Dick Rogers, founder of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Squad and fount of wisdom about kidnapping and rescue strategy, field ops, and weaponry.
Buried Secrets Page 31
