by Leslie Wolfe
“Great news, please go on,” she said enthusiastically.
“We were able to ascertain that there is, in fact, a network of sorts that you have uncovered. They’re organized as moneymakers and money movers. The moneymakers are Singh and one other man by the name of Ahmad Babak Javadi. These two have organized a network of charity organizations across Europe, operating as Eastern Africa Development Fund, for which they continuously fundraise. They do it right, and they have access to celebrities and influential people, being able to raise significant amounts of money at events throughout Europe. They receive corporate donations in the hundreds of thousands, even millions. Each event raises several million dollars. Clarence and I can only speculate as to the reasons why some corporations donate so generously, but we have nothing solid yet.”
“Very interesting,” she said, careful with her words, in case her followers were dining within earshot of her. “I wonder about that too.”
“We’re still investigating that angle. Money movers, now. The movers we found are Karmal Shah and Muhammad Sadiq. Shah has a prosperous deli business operating out of Prague and operates a Piaggio turboprop airplane that can take him anywhere with significant cargo onboard. The other mover, Sadiq, has a Sea Ray 470, and his favorite destination is the Bahamas.”
“So how does this work?” Alex asked.
“From what we’ve seen, the two moneymakers raise funds and send them legally to Somalia, in Mogadishu. All seemingly legit so far. From here on it turns interesting. Cash is withdrawn and just disappears, but the dates coincide with Shah’s Piaggio’s shopping visits to the area. His business conveniently imports delicacies from Africa, among other places. In other cases we have seen cash going to a bank in Bahamas, from where it disappears again, dates coinciding with the voyages of Sadiq’s Sea Ray. We are assuming that the purpose is to get the cash into the continental United States, untraceable, and this is how they do it.”
“Fascinating,” she said, “and very useful.” She took notes discreetly on a sticky pad she had in her laptop bag.
“A couple more interesting things to note,” Blake continued. “They are very discreet, these people. They cover their tracks well. We almost missed the money movers completely. They made only one mistake, allowing us to connect the movers with the makers. The moneymakers, when they organized a fundraiser in Zurich, used Shah’s deli business in Prague as a supplier. They ordered caviar and truffles from Overnight Delight and had it shipped to their location, on ice, the next day. Big mistake, sloppy work, but we were grateful for it. Another note, looking at these people’s accounts, they’re not your typical person of interest for terrorism, Alex. They are all powerful, wealthy business people. I cannot comprehend why someone like that would get involved in terrorism and what they could be planning. Their status is probably the best cover a terrorist could hope for. No one expects it; no one sees it coming. Clarence was thinking that those corporate donations we can’t explain might very well be their own companies’ network of vendors, being encouraged to donate. We’re still exploring that angle.”
“Are we missing anyone? From this party?”
“Not sure. Clarence said he’ll keep looking. The more they travel and use their credit cards, their passports, or their identities anywhere in the world, we can narrow down other associations. You remember how the association search worked, right? With each move, it eliminates coincidental travelers and pinpoints those people who always happen to be in the same place at the same time as our targets. It becomes very precise after a certain number of iterations. We just need more time.”
“I cannot thank you enough,” Alex said, “this is extremely helpful for me.”
“You’re very welcome,” Blake replied. “Call anytime, for anything at all. Clarence will keep looking. Good luck!”
She thought for a few seconds about what to do, ignoring the Tandoori mutton that was getting cold in front of her. She grabbed her cell again, this time sending an encrypted text to Sam: “Need to see you now. Say where.”
A minute later, his reply came. ”Sheraton New Delhi, room 306.”
She took a couple of bites from her food, signaled for the check, and programmed her phone to get driving directions. She realized she had to lose Pranav, her driver, and drive herself through New Delhi. She had no other option.
She reached the Toyota and Pranav hopped out from behind the wheel to open her door.
“Pranav, you need to take a cab and get yourself home, do you understand?” She gave him forty dollars in small bills, a small fortune for New Delhi. He looked confused.
“Ma’am, I drive you,” he said.
“Not tonight you’re not, sorry. May I have the keys, please?” she asked, extending her hand.
He held the keys, looking even more confused.
She sighed and just snatched the keys from his hand. She hopped into the Toyota and drove away slowly, getting used to the car’s right-side steering wheel and the streets with left-side driving. This is gonna hurt, she thought.
In the rearview mirror, she saw Pranav speaking to the driver of a black SUV, some local brand she didn’t recognize, but that SUV looked very much like a Jeep. Now she knew what her followers were driving.
She hit the gas and entered traffic in the screams of horns from the heavy traffic. She held the wheel tight, her knuckles white from effort and her palms sweating. She followed the GPS directions with difficulty for a while, until she got the hang of driving on the left side of the road. It was weird, and the crazy, unpredictable traffic made it even worse. She stopped at a red light, making the cars behind her honk furiously, but she didn’t budge.
She checked her rearview mirror and saw the black Jeep knock-off right there behind her, third car back. She took a quick breath and turned left, on the red, pedal to the metal. Then she turned left again into a small alley, instantly killing the engine and lights. She saw the Jeep pass on the street behind her. She waited a few minutes, then drove away from the alley, resuming GPS instructions.
She drove for a few minutes, checking her surroundings all the time. Suddenly, the Jeep was back, on the lane to her left, a little behind her. She hit the gas; there was no other way. She sped by a farmers’ market, managing not to hit much; although she did run too close to a clothing rack, her bumper and wiper getting entangled in a couple items. She dragged those along for a while, until they finally became loose. The Jeep was following her aggressively now, giving up all attempts to stay inconspicuous.
She took a sudden right turn into an alley in the market, making her tires squeal and some pedestrians run scared. The Jeep still followed, hitting a bunch of grain buckets and spreading their contents onto the sidewalk. People screamed and ran as she drove by; she honked almost constantly. She came close to hitting an old man, but managed to maneuver out of the way and just hit a small wooden cart instead. Melons scattered everywhere, the Jeep smashing them as they came. She took another tight turn onto a small bridge, squealing her tires some more and scraping the side rails.
The Jeep still followed, hitting a snake charmer’s basket and throwing it into the air, snakes falling from it onto the ground as the crowds shrieked and ran. The fake Jeep’s turn radius must have been a little too wide, or the driver not very skilled. It missed the tight turn onto the bridge and hit the end rail straight on, making it do a side flip through the air and land in a muddy river.
Alex slowed and watched the black Jeep as it sunk slowly into the muddy waters of the river, while the two men in the vehicle were making their escape. They were going to be just fine. She hit the gas happily, resuming the instructions on her phone’s GPS and following the directions it gave.
She arrived at the Sheraton, hands still trembling a little from the effort and the adrenaline of the chase. She went straight to room 306, and after giving Sam a quick hug, she went straight for the mini bar.
“That bad, huh?” Sam probed.
“Wasn’t easy,” she said, wearing a smile of satisfa
ction on her lips. She had pulled it off, on her own, and she felt proud.
“Did anyone follow you?”
“Nope,” she smiled.
“How come? I thought they were on you 24/7.”
“They’ve gone fishing. In the river. Or canal, or whatever. Really filthy. Cheers!”
“Huh?”
“They took their vehicle into the river too,” she winked.
Sam burst out laughing.
“Nice going, kiddo!” He extended a high-five, and she slammed her palm into his with enthusiasm. She took another gulp of Martini vermouth, finishing off the small bottle, then took the sticky pad from her laptop bag and started writing names on the notes, sticking them to the hotel room wall.
“Blake Bernard just called, gave me four names, well, just three we didn’t already know, and some money trails.”
She explained to Sam what Blake had uncovered, and as she did, she pointed at the names on the wall, connecting them using other sticky notes with arrows drawn on them. The four names were lined up horizontally, under two separate sections, titled “$ Makers” and “$ Movers.”
“Do you see what we’re missing, Sam?”
“Yep, we don’t have their leader,” he replied, confirming her conclusion.
She took another note, wrote “X” on it, and placed it on the wall above everyone else.
“Blake seemed confident that the software would identify X at some point in time. I’m thinking X might be too smart for that. If he didn’t make a single mistake in so long, more than a year is what Blake said, it’s possible the bank’s anti-money laundering software will never catch him.”
“If he’s this good, he’d be using private jets with fake flight plans, cash, or use his staffers’ credit cards to pay for stuff, rotate through them often enough. It’s a possibility we won’t catch him,” Sam said.
“Until we know who X is and what he’s after, we can’t assume we’re done, or that this threat has been averted or controlled. So far, no one even knows he exists, and he was able to plan the biggest electoral fraud in our history and get powerful business people to execute it. Our Mr. X is scary good at his game.”
“I agree.”
“What next, then?”
“I’ll make a couple of calls and see if these names ring any bells with my Mossad friends.”
...90
...Wednesday, September 21, 7:23AM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Robert Wilton’s Residence
...Washington, DC
Robert Wilton dressed himself carefully that morning. White dress shirt, charcoal suit, silver gray tie. He was getting ready for what could turn into a day of unexpected outcomes. The Agency team had provided a solution, and they were working on tying up loose ends now, which meant the time had come for him to come clean. That could mean he might be arrested that day, minutes after having a conversation with his boss, Campbell. That could not be helped, and it didn’t matter.
What mattered was Melanie. Alex and The Agency team had told him she was safe. As soon as he accepted the software from the Indian software vendor and released the final payment owed to them, Melanie’s life would stop being under threat. Alex reassured him that the UNSUB was going to have what she had called “bigger concerns” right after that contract ended. He definitely hoped so.
He steadied himself, looking at his image in the mirror. His hands were shaking just a little bit. Quite understandable. He was pale, and dark circles marred his tired, troubled blue eyes. Also understandable.
He took a sealed envelope addressed simply “Melanie” from his dressing room drawer and put it in the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He didn’t want Melanie to hear he had been arrested and understand nothing of it. He quietly opened the door to their bedroom and stood there, watching her sleep. Her skin had returned to the pink color of a healthy woman. She slept soundly, an arm thrown over his pillow, her hair covering her face. Robert felt tears coming to his eyes. Missing her, that was going to be the hardest part of what he had to do. Nonetheless, he still had to do it.
He approached the bed and kissed her gently on her hair. She woke up slightly and mumbled in her sleep. “What’s up, baby?”
“Nothing, just saying goodbye. Go back to sleep.”
He kissed her again and left, closing the bedroom door quietly behind him. He went straight to his home office and placed the envelope by his desk phone. Then took his briefcase and car keys and left.
In his DCBI office, on the sixth floor, Robert watched the early morning sky and recapped the day’s agenda. First, he would sign off on the offshore software, marking the end of this contract. Then he would release the payment to the Indian offshoring company and send them the confirmation. The Agency had insisted this step had to be taken; there was no way around it. The thought of paying them still made him very angry, considering everything they had done. But it just had to be done, so he would do it. Then he would swap the Indian software received by FTP from ERamSys with the one Lou Blake had sent him on a DVD. Very easy.
He’d load the DVD onto the lab’s machine and transfer the software onto an encrypted hard disc, which he would then send to InfraTech using the NSA-appointed courier. A senior NSA agent was scheduled to pick up the encrypted HDD and then head out to Utah where he would take things over. He would replace all employees with NSA agents for the few days remaining and ensure all hardware was clean. Everything made sense and everything was doable. He could be done with all this by lunch.
Robert picked up his office phone and dialed an internal extension.
“Campbell,” a man answered in seconds.
“Robert Wilton, here. I think you should cancel your afternoon agenda and see me right after lunch. This is important.”
...91
...Wednesday, September 21, 10:09AM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Capitol Skyline Hotel
...Washington, DC
Warren Helms liked open views and elevated vantage points. They made him feel in control. His top-floor room overlooked the city landmarks and the distant noises were barely noticeable. He was irritated this morning, bothered by his inability to deliver on his task, which had never happened before. He had been given a month to bring Doug Krassner’s ratings lower than Bobby Johnson’s. A month and a half later, he had to admit he had failed.
This acknowledgment bruised his ego and put a blemish on his spotless record of achievement as a private contractor. In his line of business, failure was not an option. Failure could be lethal. His clients weren’t exactly forgiving, understanding people. But he was much better at eliminating unwanted people than he was at discrediting them in the eyes of the public; that was a fact. He was not a PR specialist; he was a contractor. The best there was. He should be allowed to do his job, the job he was good at.
Helms grabbed his encrypted cell phone and called his client. It was early afternoon in Greece; the Russian should be awake, his hangover well dissipated by now.
“Yes?” The familiar raspy voice picked up.
“This is Helms.”
“Yes...The man who will not give me results, right? The man who is putting our entire operation at risk, da?”
“Sir, I recommend a different approach. This one is not working. No matter what I try, he manages to fix it.” He swallowed hard and continued. “Sir, this is not what I do, not what I’m good at. Let’s try a different approach, one that would have the guaranteed results you’re looking for. It’s time he stops being a problem. There’s only a month and a half left.”
The Russian was silent. Not a good sign. Finally, he spoke. “Yes, not much time left, that is true. OK, do it, but be very careful. He cannot be a martyr, or linked to us in any way. No Russian connection. No Islamic connection, either. The circumstances must be above any suspicion. It needs to be clean, natural, and in the public eye. Can you do that?”
“Absolutely,” Helms answered, relieved.
“Good. Make sure it happens just a few days before Election Day, yo
u understand? I do not want them to have time to regroup. And do not fail me again.”
“I won’t.”
“You better not,” the Russian answered and hung up.
It was going to be challenging. It wasn’t that easy to get anywhere near the presidential candidates, when their Secret Service detail was already in place watching their every move. A precisely timed heart attack, his signature hit, would work best for the annoying Mr. Krassner. It required unrestricted access to what his target ingested, and that wasn’t so easy to get. Maybe a carefully placed substance or biological contaminant? He could place it somewhere he would touch, inhale, or brush against.
His plan still needed work.
...92
...Thursday, September 22, 10:23AM Local Time (UTC+5:30 hours)
...ERamSys Headquarters
...New Delhi, India
Alex felt like singing. She was finally going home. She had checked out of her hotel, wearing her megawatt smile, and had brought her suitcase with her to the office. She had some paperwork left to wrap up, after DCBI had finalized the payment and the contract was closed. That shouldn’t take her more than half an hour or so, and then she’d be on her way to the airport.
Pranav helped her with the suitcase, bringing it to the fifth floor conference room. She wanted all remaining documents to travel in her suitcase, not her extra heavy laptop bag. Priya brought her a file folder and a cup of coffee. She drank absently, while reviewing the contract closure, scope validation, and financial transactions documentation, signing off on everything. She waited for Priya to make copies and then shoved all the paperwork into the exterior pocket of her suitcase. She was ready to go home.
She grabbed the laptop bag, put it on her shoulder, and started toward the door. Startling her, Bal appeared out of nowhere.