Today, Jeremy would complete the month cycle of observation. Accountants do things in cycles: daily things, weekly things, monthly things. Their lives run that way too. For thirty-one days Jeremy had been living in Samuel Berman’s skin and Berman never even knew it. One month to confirm the patterns. Now the cycle would be complete. And he had his answers.
Jeremy had known for a week that Berman was working with Brazilian agents. At his client’s instructions, Jeremy continued the surveillance in order to complete the cycle, to find all his contacts. His client wanted to understand the damage, how bad the exposure was. Alves was the key. Jeremy Leach did a thorough job.
By now, Jeremy reckoned Berman will have finished his breakfast, picked up his wallet and keys by the toaster on his way out, and walked down the three flights for the exercise.
Quickly Jeremy got back into his car. He knew he would not have to wait long and he did not. Samuel Berman came out of the building and walked swiftly to the corner, swinging his leather satchel by his side. Jeremy started his engine just as the cab pulled away with Berman. No problem. Jeremy knew exactly where Berman was going. But Jeremy was not one to become overconfident. He knew he must not lose Samuel Berman.
Unexpectedly, instead of following the usual route down the Henry Hudson Parkway, the cab veered off at Seventy-second Street heading toward Central Park. Instantly Jeremy’s senses became alert. This was not like Berman. This could be the drop he was ordered to prevent at all costs. He sped up to make sure he did not lose the cab. He also cocked his Minolta high-speed digital camera with the three-hundred-millimeter zoom telephoto lens on the seat next to him.
The cab picked up speed as it entered the park. Jeremy stayed close. He followed it to the Tavern-on-the-Green II where it stopped long enough for Berman to pick up a passenger, a gray-suited, spectacled man carrying a large attaché case. That was Alves. The two had never met like this before, in the open where they shouldn’t be. Jeremy quickly took a picture as Alves entered the cab. As it pulled away, Jeremy stayed close behind it.
The cab headed cross-town to the FDR Drive. Jeremy’s plans for Berman’s evening “accident” were beginning to come apart at the seams. Where was he going? Why had Alves surfaced?
The cab continued over the Triborough Bridge to the Bruckner Expressway. From there to Interstate 95 toward New England. As a client of AJC Fusion, Alves and Berman could be seen togetherperhapsat a Central Park cafe. But not in New England. There was nothing in New England in Samuel Berman’s predictable life.
“Dammit,” Jeremy said out loud, pounding the steering wheel, continuing the pursuit, trying to uncover the sense of these unexpected movements, now certain that a drop of some kind was going down.
The cab pulled into a gas station on the Hutchinson River Parkway. Jeremy was forced to pull in after it, risking detection. Not good, his mind protested, as he searched desperately for options. Stopping at the air pump, he watched Berman and his companion leave the cab and move to a silver Mercedes parked next to the service building. Only Alves got in the backseat and the car quickly sped off with Berman walking back to the taxi waiting for him. Jeremy was now drawn beyond his instructions into unanticipated pursuit. If there was a drop, Alves had the material. He could deal with Berman later after getting new instructions. But he had to prevent Alves from escaping with whatever was given to him. “At all costs,” he had been told.
The Mercedes cut back onto I-95 and headed toward Connecticut. The ride on I-95 gave Jeremy time to think. He could still get a chance at Alves. But undoubtedly the driver was an agent. For whom he did not know. The driver should not be underestimated. He knew there would be more switches. They would probably lose him. The assignment had suddenly turned sloppy and unprofessional. If Alves got away his skills would be suspect. Had he become careless? Had he missed something? How was this run set up without him getting wind of it?
He hated desperate acts. But he’d have to watch for any opening. He knew once they were off the interstate he would never be able to keep the tail. The switches and blocks and detours would shake him for sure. He would have to act before they left the interstate.
There was no longer any option for an accident. He would have to kill the driver, as carefully and precisely as he could under the circumstances, with a bullet through the head, from his car to the Mercedes. And then Alves if the crash didn’t kill them and retrieve the package, whatever it was. He had no choice but to risk it. It would have to be done quickly.
As they approached New Haven, the Mercedes drifted to the outside lane and turned its directional signal on. Exit 50, Tweed-New Haven Airport. Time was up. He had to move. Jeremy eased his car toward the Mercedes, his Smith & Wesson in his right hand. As the Mercedes pulled to the right to exit, Jeremy sped up to exit parallel to the driver’s side of the Mercedes. Alves was reading something in the backseat. Jeremy saw his face turn toward him, careless eyes satisfying a careless curiosity. Pulling next to the Mercedes, Jeremy raised his revolver and took aim quickly.
But not quickly enough. The driver of the Mercedes saw Jeremy’s car coming alongside of his on the exit ramp and speeded up, suspicious of Jeremy’s move. Jeremy speeded up to regain his target.
The Mercedes driver floored the accelerator, reacting now to the danger in Jeremy’s actions. Together the two cars raced down the exit ramp, the Mercedes roaring into the intersection first . . . too late to see that the light was against them. Too late to avoid the van racing through the intersection on a collision path with the Mercedes. The screeching brakes did not prevent the inevitable collision, the crush of metal, the bursting of tanks, the shower of sparks, the sickening sound of sudden death.
The two vehicles fused themselves together in a last careening tumble as the tangled mass burst into an expanding ball of flames.
Jeremy swerved to the right instead of the left and saved his own life. Shaken, he pulled over, beyond the intersection.
“Jesus Christ,” Jeremy kept muttering as he watched the bright red blaze change into a thick, black, billowing pyre. “Jesus Christ,” he thought, as the closeness of his call flowed through his limp, sweating body.
The sound of the sirens roused him. Quickly he wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, licked the salty fluid from his lips. He took half a dozen pictures for his client, and headed back to New York, still shaking. He got lucky this time, and depending on luck scared Jeremy. He knew he was not a lucky man. Berman was a lucky man.
27
“Frank, I want you to set up a meeting with Senator Paxton” the president said. “I want to talk to him about AJC Fusion. Make it for tomorrow morning. First thing in the morning. And clear all my appointments for this afternoon. Let me know when Cranshaw arrives.”
28
Amanda Brock’s office in the Department of Justice Building was small. The current FBI Director did not believe in using one room. She would go from room to room, depending on her needs. She would entertain visitors in this office. Meetings were held in the small conference room. Seminars were held in the large conference room or in the auditorium. Strategizing was done in the situation room, where communications links could be maintained with the rest of the sophisticated domestic network. She ate lunch out. Or she would go to the area of the supervisor she needed to deal with.
For this conversation with Roger Talbot, she chose the lawn surrounding the Jefferson Memorial. She had asked Talbot to meet her there at lunchtime so they could have a friendly moment in the fickle April sun. It was unusually warm and brighta harbinger of summer.
“Roger, what do you know about the Alves incident?” Brock asked directly, wasting no time.
“Well, howdy Roger, how’s the missuz? Fine day out today, isn’t it?—Aren’t we just getting right down to things, Amanda,” Roger Talbot joked, not accepting Brock’s inquisitorial tone.
“I’m sorry, Roger, but this is not going to be one of our better days. Let me ask you again. What do you know about Alves’s death?”
“Is this an official inquiry or are you just pokin’ around to keep the devil from idle hands. In other words, sister Amanda, am I goin’ to need my lawyer before we go on our little stroll?” Talbot continued to smile broadly.
“Roger, I’m having a really lousy day today and your bullshit just isn’t making it any better.” Brock stopped walking, and turned directly to confront Talbot. “I know that’s not your job to make my day better, but we’ve got ourselves a situation here and I want to know whether you’re in it up to your knees or up to your asshole. So I’m going to ask you again—unofficially—what do you know about Alves’s death?”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that you’re havin’ a bad day, Ms. Brock, but what makes you think I know anything more than what I read in the papers about our little friend from Brazil?”
“Okay, we’ll do this your way.” Brock continued to walk along the path. “Roger, I never underestimate the CIA and I hope no one underestimates the FBI. We have our ways too. Alves was under a level two surveillance. We’ve been on him since the day he started talking with Samuel Berman. We were on him when he had his famous auto accident. Except it was no accident. I know it and I think you know it.”
“I don’t know jack shit about Alves’s accident. That’s a domestic issue, right? So what does all this have to do with me?” Talbot said.
“Alves was not alone when he died. In fact, there was quite a crowd. Let’s see. There was Alves, of course. Afonso Alves. Brazilian businessman. There was the innocent driver of the van and his wife. They’re quite irrelevant. There was Alves’s driver. Guess who he is. I mean was. A commercial attaché with the Brazilian government. Diplomatic immunity and all that. Carried diplomatic pouches back and forth. Starting to get interesting?
Talbot slowed and looked at Brock, cautious now.
“And there was one more person, Roger.” Brock waited for a reaction from Talbot. There was none. “A certain Jeremy Leach.” Again he watched closely for any reaction. Still there was none. “Mr. Leach is a hired assassin. A freelance hit man. Do you know him, Roger?”
“No.
“Do you know who might know him?”
“No.
“According to my man at the scene, Leach came damn close to getting fried himself too. Anyway, Alves’s accident was an accident, but only because fate beat Leach to the trigger that morning. Did you know that General Morgan Slaider was a sometime employer of said Mr. Leach’s services?”
Talbot continued walking, but his mind was suddenly racing. He realized that there was no point in challenging Brock’s statement. She would not have made it if she didn’t have convincing evidence. This was not a charge one made lightly. But was Morgan crazy, he thought, getting involved in this kind of shit. There were so many other ways to handle this sort of thing. He must be nuts to be in this personally.
“What can I say, Amanda? That’s an impressive statement you’ve just made there. And just why do you think Morgan has taken up of knocking off businessmen in his spare time?”
“Please, Roger, let’s not play games with each other. It’s pretty clear Berman was making a drop to the Brazilians. Leach was trying to stop him when the accident occurred. You and I both know how Morgan felt about the president giving that company the solid laser technology. Morgan’s worst fears were being realized and he acted. I also know about your little meetings with Morgan. What I want to know is whether or not you knew anything about this Leach character.”
“No, no I didn’t. Does the president know anything about this—about Morgan?”
“No. And I’m not planning to tell him. I’ll deal with Morgan personally. No one else knows. I’ve talked to the agent involved and he will say nothing to anyone. He never saw Leach. He never heard of Leach. I wanted to find out if you needed a talking to. Apparently, you don’t. Morgan was just trying to protect the country’s secrets and protect the president from the consequences of a bad decision. I can live with that. But Morgan has to stop with this vigilante bullshit. It’s demeaning, first of allbelow our dignity for chrissake, to be hiring private assassins. I can’t and I won’t protect him if it happens again. And be careful, Roger. Big Brother is watching you.
“What do you mean, Amanda? I thought I was Big Brother.”
29
“Morgan, this is Roger. I need to see you. And Morgan, I mean today.”
30
Paul Latimer had been urgently recalled from Brazil following the news of Alves’s death. His presence in Brazil, under the circumstances might not be viewed well. His being in Brazil at just that moment might even imply some prior level of complicity or awareness at least in the events by the United States government. It was not an avenue of speculation that President Drummond wanted to fuel. No condolences were offered. It was simply an event the United States government chose not to acknowledge.
Paul Latimer was six feet six inches tall. For a man fated to stand in the shadow of his President, he was remarkably conspicuous. He had also been a genuine hero during the Second Gulf War. He was the first vice president to hold the Congressional Medal of Honor. It was the medal that brought him to elected office in the first place. He understood that and resolved to be the most conscientious senator the state of Virginia had ever elected on a tide of patriotic fervor.
His height, his enthusiasm, and his medal had been a source of concern for President Drummond’s campaign advisors. They didn’t want Latimer making the president look inconsequential. But it turned out well after all. The polls showed that the women liked Paul’s height and mature good looks. And the men trusted him because of his war record and felt the Union would be in good hands should the president not be able to complete his term of office. The president’s pollsters also discovered that Paul’s height added ‘stature’ to the president—that he could control such a physical brute of a man as Latimer and command his obedience.
And that was the public image of Paul Latimeran attractive, loyal, patriotic, uncomplicated, political asset in the people’s polls—and a human life-support system for the backup president. This did not trouble Paul. He understood his public role as vice president very well. However, over the years, privately, the role of vice president had begun a slow process of elevation, beginning with John Kennedy, when he appointed Lyndon Johnson czar of the nation’s space program. Johnson was a man of monumental ego who would need an identifiable turf to keep him happy. So Kennedy discovered the delegation of presidential responsibility. Suddenly the vice president had real executive authority over something. The idea caught on.
Subsequent presidents also found areas of responsibility that they could carve out as little satrapies for their vice presidents. It seemed to help attract more appealing and competent candidates for the second spot. Drummond had delegated Energy to Latimer. All energy-related bills; the Department of Energy budget, policies and programs; and all energy-related regulatory activities were channeled through the office of the vice president for his review, modification, and recommendations to the president.
And of course, there was his statutory membership on the National Security Agency.
As the door sucked shut behind him, Latimer once more felt the throbbing energy of the room, of the president’s office, where nothing ordinary occurred. Whenever he entered the Oval Office, he could not help it—the hairs of the back of his arms would tingle. Many of Paul’s colleagues made a show of being unimpressed or at least casual about their audiences in the Oval Office. But these were not people who were only a heartbeat away from becoming president.
He never failed to notice how the closing sound of the presidential doors was different from other doors. They didn’t kachunk shut . . . it was more like a whoosh. Like the sound of a vault closing. More like a sealing-in than a closing. He felt it was always an appropriate beginning to a session with the president.
Drummond rose to greet Paul and ushered him to one of the leather wing chairs in the room. Drummond took a facing chair.
“Paul, as you can imagine, everyone at AJC Fusion was in shock over Dr. Sorenson’s death, and now Alves’s death appears to them to justify their fears. Sorenson’s death certainly drew untimely public attention to AJC Fusion. Now with Alves’s death things are moving very quickly and I want to get you up to speed on a developing matter to get your input before I make some important decisions. Sit back and relax. This isn’t world war three. But it does have the potential for just as much impact on the world as if it had been. I want to just chat with you and get your impressions and analysis.”
Latimer, who had been leaning forward, leaned back in his chair and waited for the president to continue.
“You’re aware, of course, of the events surrounding the AJC Fusion feasibility study. I know that General Slaider is very upset with me over that. I’m afraid he’s about to become even more unhappy. But I’m getting ahead of myself.” He stopped and looked directly into Latimer’s eyes, wanting to catch every nuance of his reaction to what he was going to announce.
“Cranshaw’s people have completed the commercial feasibility study. Their pilot plants are nearing completion and our boys have reviewed and confirmed their findings. They’ve done it. The sons of bitches have achieved a minimum of 70 percent energy efficiency on a small but convincing scale. Using our solid lasers, they have demonstrated a neutron density sufficient for a commercially viable, controlled fusion-energy system. I received the confirmation yesterday.”
Paul had some inkling this was coming. As a member of the ad hoc advisory group that the president had set up when Samuel Berman first appeared representing AJC Fusion, he had been apprised of continuing developments. Although he hadn’t received word of the final test results, he considered the outcome inevitable. So Paul registered no surprise at the president’s statement. However, Drummond continued to study him intently, filling him with a sense that something else was coming, something even more unexpected than the events of the past several weeks.
On Deception Watch Page 13
