Mitchel Christie.
Ordinarily, Christie was officed in the Bureau’s D.C. Field Office a few blocks away. To compensate for overcrowding there, some agents had recently been relocated to the Hoover Building. In Christie’s case the move had been sudden and very recent. When he had left his office last evening it had been in the Field Office building. The Harold Case affair changed that. He received a call at his home around three thirty that morning. His boss told him he was being assigned to head up the investigation, and would be relocated to the Hoover Building. Christie didn’t like surprises and he didn’t like change. But he was a company man and did as he was told.
The SSA sat calmly at the head of the table, his eyes focused on the district commander’s angry face. The only outward sign of tension was the soft drumbeat of Christie’s fingers slowly tapping in unison on the tabletop. He was working very hard to keep his temper under control despite the steady shower of spittle flying in his direction. It mixed with the perspiration beginning to bead up on his face. Finally, nearing the end of his patience, he held up a hand, palm outward, and said, “Steve.” That didn’t seem to have any effect. He paused for a moment, then raised his voice a notch and said, “District Commander Williams, screaming and shouting won’t accomplish anything. It’s seven o’clock in the morning and the event happened barely four hours ago. Everybody here was yanked out of bed to come in and work on this thing. Let’s not waste any of their time.”
Williams’ eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets as he struggled to control his rage. “This massacre occurred on my turf! You have no idea what my office is like right now. Phones ringin’ off the fuckin’ hooks, frightened citizens crapping their drawers, media hammering away at me for details I don’t have. And my boss calling me every fifteen minutes expecting answers when I’m not even sure what the fuckin’ questions are. What I do know is I got three dead people and one vegetable on my hands. This meeting should be happening in my office instead of me having to drive across town to watch you clowns having a circle jerk.” He straightened and took a deep breath.
“Forensics ran the victims’ prints. Three of those men were in this country illegally. They each have extensive police records in Europe.” He looked pointedly at Williams. “We’ll work closely with your people, but the Bureau has been assigned primary jurisdiction of this investigation.”
The district commander slammed a very large palm down on the table sending a shock wave all the way to its far end. “You better hope you don’t fumble the ball on this.” When he lifted his palm, it left a large wet mark on the tabletop.
All other activities in the room ceased as the SSA rose to his feet. He was a tall, lean man, but at six feet three inches he was a good three inches shorter than the district commander. And almost one hundred pounds lighter. The tense moment was interrupted as a small woman with short blonde hair and wire rim glasses approached the SSA. She whispered to him, “One of our forensics people is on the line, sir. I think you’re going to want to hear this.” She handed a cell phone to Christie.
“Christie,” he said. “What have you got?”
The voice on the other end said, “It’s Billingsley, sir. We’ve found something that could identify one of the perps.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s a very small blood sample, but it doesn’t appear – preliminarily anyway – that it came from any of the victims.”
“Where did you find it?”
“Actually, we found two samples, on the right wrist of each of the two victims who were nearest the Jeep. But their skin wasn’t broken in those areas.”
“On their wrists?” Christie paused for a moment and thought about what the evidence might mean. “Any theories yet?”
“Not really,” Billingsley said. “Might be that one of the assailants was injured and the blood was transferred in close quarters combat. Judging from the injuries suffered by those two victims, it was hand-to-hand at some point.”
“Has the sample been sent to the lab for DNA testing yet?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good work. Keep me posted.” The SSA pressed the disconnect button and handed the phone back to his assistant. “Charlotte, I wanna know the minute the DNA results are available.” She nodded and returned to her seat near the other end of the table.
Christie turned toward the others gathered around the table and raised his hands, signaling for them to pay attention. “All right, people, let’s get focused.” The room suddenly quieted. Only the district commander remained standing, glaring at Christie, who said, “It’s only been a short while since the event and we still don’t have much to go on, but let’s recap what we do know.”
The SSA sat down, purposely ignoring the smoldering gaze from the district commander, who, with an undisguised snort, finally lowered his massive frame into a chair.
“At approximately three a.m. an event involving fatalities occurred in a residential section of Georgetown. It appears to have involved a collision between a late model rented Jeep Grand Cherokee and a limousine. A man identified as Walter Bailey of Omaha, Nebraska, rented the Jeep earlier this morning at Dulles. The limousine was under lease by a Delaware corporation that’s in that line of business. It was hired for the evening by a senate investigative subcommittee for a retired CIA employee named Harold Case. Mr. Case was seventy-two years old and was working as a private contractor for that subcommittee. There were three fatalities and a potentially fatal injury. The men accompanying Mr. Case all were Ukrainian nationals who were in this country illegally. They apparently were working for a private security firm organized and headquartered in the Cayman Islands.”
The SSA glanced at some sheets of paper on the table in front of him. “Bailey appears to be an assumed name. There’s certainly no trace of such an individual in Omaha. Agents from our Atlanta office are checking into it, but it appears that the real Walter Bailey, on whom the identity is based, died at the age of twenty-eight while undergoing heart surgery in Georgia a decade ago.”
A chubby man with glasses and thinning hair, who was sitting next to Charlotte, raised his hand. “Excuse me, sir, but can the car rental people at Dulles identify the man who rented the Jeep?”
“Unfortunately, no, Chuck,” Christie said. “The car was rented from Hertz over the Internet from a public access computer in a library in Palo Alto, California. It was rented under the Walter Bailey name on a Hertz Number One Gold account. That means the car was waiting for him in the company’s lot with no check-in required. He just got in and drove it off. It was late and raining. No one saw him. The Hertz account was bogus; a dead end.”
“Didn’t Hertz’s surveillance cameras pick him up?” Chuck said.
“Yes, but the conditions were poor. He was wearing a cheap-looking raincoat with the collar turned up and a hat pulled low on his face. All we know is that he had longish hair, wore glasses, and was somewhat pudgy. We’re putting together a sketch of what we think he probably looks like and will get a copy to everyone here.”
“What about ballistics at the crime scene?” Chuck said.
“Nothing. Shell casings match bullets in spare clips carried by the Ukrainians. It appears that one of them was used to kill one of the Ukrainians as well as Mr. Case who, incidentally was shot execution style. Head shot. Close range. There are severe powder burns around the entry wound. The Jeep, being a rental vehicle, had been occupied by dozens of people. So far none of the fingerprints, fibers or other forensic evidence recovered from the Jeep have been identified with anyone in our data banks. There were no credible eyewitnesses. No anything at this point.” He didn’t mention the blood samples Billingsley had told him about—he needed this team focused on what they could make of the evidence on hand.
Williams intervened. “Do we know what Case was working on for the subcommittee?”
Christie closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed his temple. He knew from his years of experience with the Bureau that there would be little rest for him in the foreseeable fut
ure. “We’re trying to gather that information now, Steve. Apparently it’s a matter of considerable national security. The only person who appears to know much about it is the committee’s chair.”
“And that would be?” Williams said.
“Senator Morris.”
“Howard Morris?”
“Yes.”
Williams snorted loudly. “Shit! That political hack is the biggest self-serving prick in a town full of them. Always grandstanding for his left-wing base by finding ways to embarrass this country.”
Christie nodded. “And generally succeeding.”
“He won’t tell us shit unless he stands to gain from it,” Williams said.
Christie nodded again. If there was anything worse than a turf war, it was a turf war with politicians. The burning sensation in his stomach was turning into something much sharper—he’d had several cups of coffee on an empty stomach since the first call had come through at three thirty that morning. He wondered how much liquid remained in the bottle of antacid in his office, and when he would have an opportunity to get to it.
4 GEORGETOWN: THE SOCIETY
They were still in Levell’s study. Whelan had wolfed down a sandwich and was nursing an IPA. He put it down and said, “Cliff, if you want my involvement, tell me who this ‘we’ is that you keep mentioning?”
“We refer to ourselves as the Society of Adam Smith, or just the ‘Society’. I can see you nodding. Yes, that Adam Smith, the father of modern capitalism and free markets,” Levell said. “Individually, we’re highly placed in the senior ranks of the military, the intelligence community and private industry. We formed around the nucleus of the group that led to the creation of the Sleeping Dogs project. When it was shut down and we saw which way the political winds were blowing, we realized the need for a shadow government of sorts; one that works behind the scenes to counter the efforts to throw a sovereign America under the one-socialist-world bus. The next four years are critical. If Morris is elected, it will mean the proverbial end of days for the America we love. For now, that’s all you really need to know.”
Levell glanced at a large antique grandfather clock and said, “Given the unexpected difficulties you ran into earlier this morning, we need to be more cautious than ever. Debrief your trip up to the time you arrived here. Leave nothing out.”
Whelan took another pull from his beer. “The plane and car reservations were made by one of your contacts. I flew into Dulles from Shannon using a fake British national’s ID.”
“Luggage?”
“Just a small carry-on.”
“You were in disguise?”
“Yeah, three piece business suit, cordovan lace-ups, goatee and mustache, Julius Caesar bangs, glasses. Pretty much kept my face buried in a newspaper or head turned toward the cabin hull, as if sleeping. Being in First Class, everyone pretty much minded his or her own business. I encouraged that with a certain aloofness.”
“What about Dulles?” Levell said.
“Put a cap on as I deplaned and went into the first head I came to. Changed into the clothes I’m wearing now, added a cheap raincoat, shaggy wig, rain hat, different glasses, glove liners and wrapped the three piece suit around my waist for extra padding. Packed everything else, including the glasses and fake whiskers, in the carry-on.”
“The car pick up?”
“Took the Hertz shuttle from the airport.”
“Driver notice you?”
“Yeah, but given the hour and the fact that no one else was onboard, there wasn’t much I could do. I was careful to keep my head down and touch nothing, even with the glove liners on. Made no conversation. I sat behind the luggage rack that’s immediately behind the driver. Gave him two bucks when he dropped me off. That’s pretty standard. Any more or less can get you noticed.”
“Surveillance at the car lot?”
“Sure, there are cameras everywhere today. But I took care not to give them much to record.”
“And the carry-on and extra clothes?”
“Dropped the clothes in one Goodwill drop-box, the carry-on, raincoat and hat in another. Tossed the wig and glasses out the window in separate places.”
Levell nodded in approval. “That should have the boys and girls at the Bureau chasing their tails. Unless there was blood, the only evidence they’ll have from the scene is the car.”
Whelan drank the last of the Dogfish Head and set the empty bottle on a side table near his chair.
Levell ran a hand across one cheek. His face was lined by age and the stress of the life he’d led, but he still had a full head of hair, gray and close cropped, every bit the Marine officer he once had been. “Isn’t it the height of irony that, after all these years, you and that sonofabitch run into each other when you’re on your way to see me.” He shook his head. “Do you think his ramming your vehicle was a deliberate act?”
Whelan thought about the question for a moment or two, then shook his head. “As much as neither of us believes in coincidences, I think that’s what this was; just one incredibly unfortunate coincidence.” He paused. “Why Ukrainians, though? There’s a lot of domestic muscle available on the street.”
Levell snorted. “Under the Soviets, most Ukrainians were treated as third class citizens, something less than human. Abusing them made the Ruskies feel better about their own sorry asses. After the USSR dissolved, most Ukrainians were able to move on with their lives and better themselves in honest work.
“These guys who work for Laski are something else entirely. They did the Ruskies’ dirty work, and don’t give a flying fuck for an honest day’s effort. They’re ruthless, conscience-free, and cheap. Exactly what a scum-sucking pig like Laski would need.”
Whelan nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“How did you know Case recognized you?”
“Right after I got out of the truck, the driver of the limo and his associate appeared to get some kind of information on their earbuds. The driver said something along the lines of me being ‘one of Levell’s people.’ Case must have guessed I was on my way here.”
Levell rubbed his cheek again and his eyes narrowed as he looked at Whelan. “Case, that old sonofabitch, must still have had decent eyesight in spite of his decadent lifestyle. Did you speak to him?”
“Wasn’t much time.” Whelan stood and picked up the attaché case and held it out toward Levell. “But Harold had this with him. Might contain worthwhile intel.”
“You’ve done well,” Levell said. “Now, let’s have a look at what Harold dug up on you and the others. But we’ll have to be quick about it. Case was an asshole, but a well connected one. His killing will set off a shit storm. Add to that the number you did on the three muscle heads. The Feds will be combing through this neighborhood for days. We’ve got to get you out of here, and fast.” He reached for a cell phone on his desk.
5 HART SENATE OFFICE BUILDING
About one mile east of the J. Edgar Hoover Building, in the shadows of the Capitol, was another massive, multistoried structure, the Hart Senate Office Building. Named for the late Senator Phillip Hart of Michigan, it was home to the offices of fifty senators, three committees and several subcommittees. Among the several structures of the United States Capitol Complex, it was the farthest from the Capitol Building, but one of the nicest. It featured a ninety-foot high sky-lit central atrium bridged by walkways on every floor. In the center of the atrium on the first floor was a massive statue that reached upward fifty-one feet into the open space. One of the late Alexander Calder’s final efforts, the towering abstract piece combined black aluminum clouds suspended above black steel mountains.
Howard Morris didn’t like the statue. He thought it was pretentious. He didn’t like the atrium either. It was like the Senate Gallery—filled with common people.
Morris enjoyed a large, seventh floor corner office with a killer view of Capitol Hill. Despite that, he had arranged his desk to face the door that opened from the office of his assistant, Janine, leaving
his back to the windows. He liked to see who was entering his presence. The office had been tastefully furnished by one of the most expensive and sought-after interior designers in the city. Although members of Congress had certain budget constraints on the furnishing of their offices, Morris was savvy in the ways of the federal bureaucracy. He had spared no taxpayer dollars in establishing an oasis of comfort and luxury for himself.
Besides, he believed he’d earned the privilege. Serving his fourth term in the senate, Morris was the chair of the select committee on intelligence. He also chaired a special subcommittee probing Central Intelligence Agency covert operations. The subcommittee’s existence was considered a matter of national security and few people knew of it.
He had come to the office early, expecting Harold Case to provide him with the elements of a huge story; one that would further erode the myth of American exceptionalism. It would show the citizenry that their nation’s position of global dominance had been built on intrigue and black ops savagery rather than any unique qualities. That would further weaken America’s global standing as well as its ability to avoid the formation of a single world order. It also would strengthen his base on the far left and gather more support for his planned, but as yet unannounced, bid for his party’s nomination for president. To his dismay, he’d discovered from the morning news that Case indeed had produced the elements of a huge story, but it wasn’t the one Morris had expected.
He felt his anger and frustration rising. He stood, strode from behind his massive desk, and began to pace nervously back and forth across the thick, plush carpet. As usual, his feet were beginning to ache. He was several inches short of average height, and sensitive about it. The orthotics he wore to add stature came at the price of comfort. His endless tour of the Beltway cocktail circuit had added more than a few extra pounds, but was largely disguised by the work of a talented tailor. The very expensive, bespoke suit coat he wore masked his narrow shoulders. It was made of charcoal gray silk, and he had paired it with a pale pink shirt and pink and gray rep tie. He ran a hand through the long gray hair that he wore brushed straight back. Morris noticed the back of his hand looked paler than he preferred and made a mental note to apply a new coat of the tanning gel at the first opportunity.
The intercom on his desk buzzed. “Senator,” his assistant said. “Mr. Jenkins is here.”
“Good, send him in, Janine.” He walked back to his desk and stood behind it. A moment later, the door opened and a tall, lanky black man walked through it. He was wearing a long-sleeved yellow cotton shirt with a solid navy blue tie and navy trousers and carrying a heavy overcoat. He nodded to Morris.