Lauren started to say something—a question, a yell, something—but I pushed her behind me with my right hand, staying forward and focused on Senior. He was moving in quicker, coming in maybe five feet from us. I planted my feet and made myself ready for the physical confrontation I saw in my mind: Deal with it head-on, get in the first strike.
I made sure Lauren was behind me, giving myself enough space that I could operate in this situation as needed: a kick, a punch, whatever my instinct dictated in that moment—it was all muscle memory.
Senior was close. Then, movement to my left. I took my eyes off Senior to see. It was Jimmy, the other security guy. He came from nowhere, the side of the door to the restaurant, somehow. He rushed at Senior, who apparently did not see him or didn’t care. Jimmy, moving at speed from wherever he had been concealed, jumped upward with one leg extended, a downward vertical approach, and hit Senior on the side of the neck with a forward fist strike in a place that could kill or immobilize anybody. I saw it and heard it. Senior grunted and folded down on the ground. Jimmy landed perfectly on both feet and closed on Senior, standing over him, ready to inflict more pain and crippling blows if necessary.
It wasn’t necessary. The strike he had landed had been powerful and effective. Senior lay on the ground on his back, eyes closed and not moving, maybe dead, maybe just unconscious. No more threat.
People were now stopping on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. Bob came out of the car, took on a police-like presence, and told the growing but still-small crowd to move on, that this was police business. He held up some type of a gold shield or a badge. When a role is performed with that level of authority and with the right accoutrements, like an official-looking badge, nobody questions it. They just follow along.
“Go,” Jimmy said to me. “We’ve got it. We’ll meet you at Prime.” When I didn’t move immediately, he said again, “Go!”
I was looking around the area for any other threats, somebody who might have been with Senior. Nobody caught my attention; nor did other visible threats. I looked down at Senior. There was a small wooden truncheon in his right hand, a solid, wood, baton-like instrument, maybe twelve inches long. Good thing he hadn’t gotten near us—those things can do serious damage.
At that point, Bob had come to us and was signaling with hands for us to follow him to my car. Lauren was going into a kind of low-level shock, though, fortunately, not crying or yelling. I pulled her in close to me and said to her, from as close to her as I could get at about ear level, “It’s okay, it’s done, it’s over.”
She grabbed me with both arms and pulled herself strongly into me.
“C’mon, we need to go,” I said. “We need to get out of here.”
She released me, and we moved together behind Bob to my car, with my left arm at Lauren’s back to keep her both moving and tethered. Bob helped Lauren into the passenger seat while I got in the driver’s side, attached my seat belt, and started the engine.
Bob belted in Lauren and said, “We’ll meet you at Prime. Don’t leave until we get there. We’ll handle this. It will be a few minutes, not more. Go!”
He closed the door, I dropped it into Drive, and we got out of there.
I had no idea how they would handle it. But I knew beyond any doubt that these were seasoned professionals.
As we drove back to Prime, Lauren seemed gripped by fearful thoughts of what she had just seen, the obvious thought being that her life was now so disrupted that she couldn’t go to a restaurant without danger. She was silent the whole way back. I replayed in my mind what Jimmy had done. Seeing the threat and its proximity, getting airborne, drilling a perfect hand strike on a moving target, and landing firmly on both feet with cat-like balance and control—man, those were some world-class moves, made just when they were needed.
The entirety of the drive to Prime, I checked behind us and all around for any kind of threat. Nothing appeared.
When we arrived, I took Lauren directly to Jerry’s office. I explained what had just happened. He insisted we call the police over an ostensible attack on his employee. I resisted and told him I had arranged for the best security in the world, as this example evidenced, and that I would take care of Lauren. The security guys would take her to the yoga class, and I would take her from there. I asked him again to hold off for the weekend, stressed that I understood the situation and knew what to do, and that it would be over in a few days. He relented and agreed to do nothing, but insisted that he would need to re-evaluate everything on Monday. With that, it was settled.
Just then, my cell phone chimed. It was Bob. They were outside, and back on the case, in protection mode for Lauren. My immediate thought: they had handled the situation at the restaurant… quickly. Man, these guys were good! I told him I’d be coming out in a few minutes, and thanked him and Jimmy for their excellent work as true professionals.
* * *
I left Lauren and Prime Mortgage. In my mind, everything was under control, at least for that moment. Bob and Jimmy, superb professionals, were there handling security. Lauren was in her office for the afternoon, with no outside or inside appointments. Jerry had agreed to refrain from calling the police. Outside interference from the police at this point would have added nothing. I did not need the local cops asking questions and doing nothing meaningful. I was way ahead of that sort of “investigation.”
As I drove to the DNA lab, which was adjacent to the MIA airport, about a twenty-minute drive from the Prime Mortgage office, I was able to think more deeply about what was happening, the incident at the restaurant in particular. My immediate reaction was that it was Lauren that Senior was after. But that would have been so heavy-handed, even for these bozos. To attack her in broad daylight, with a truncheon, knowing that she was with me… No, this guy, whom I had put down hard at the yoga center—he was after me! Most likely, he had gotten out of the hospital, probably the next day, and they’d put him back on the intimidation detail for Prime Mortgage employees. He had been stationed somewhere around the Prime Mortgage office, I had stumbled in, and he’d seen a chance for some revenge, some pay back. He’d gone freelance, followed us to the restaurant, and waited and took his shot. And he’d gotten jammed, hard, by Jimmy and gone down… again.
I needed more information, as was usual, but I had enough to make some general, broad conclusions… or at least ask some better questions.
First, Siroco needed this loan commitment in the worst way. The pressure must have been enormous for them to resort to physical intimidation, which was such a strange and ineffective measure, especially in America. But that raised some attendant questions: Were they dealing with any other mortgage company, or just Prime? Was the pressure they were feeling internal or external? And what was the exigency which prompted the pressure?
Second, Lev seemed to be in charge, although he was not the titular president of the company—that was Richard Adams. Lev looked to be handling the muscle end of their business; Adams apparently was the polish, the closer, something like that—he was the one who had met with Ed Sapperstein. Lev spoke with a barely noticeable accent; Senior and Junior at the yoga center had spoken with much stronger accents. What was the connection to the Minister of the Interior of Ukraine and his agent who had seduced Ziv? And these two guys, Junior and Senior, they were dense street-level clowns with no real skills, unlike the giant who had come with Lev to the meeting at Prime. What kind of bench did Siroco have, what kind of depth? What kind and level of threats could Siroco actualize?
One thing was crystal clear: Lauren was in a danger zone, and I had placed myself in the same danger zone. I had not even considered security driving from Prime to the restaurant, comforted by the presence of Bob and Jimmy, but still. I needed to move up to security level: high, or whatever that might be called. Alert at all times. Okay, got that.
I needed to get with Linda and find out more about what was going on in Siroco. She wa
s analyzing email and phone traffic at Siroco. I needed to fill in the picture with that information. I would do that after the DNA lab.
As I approached the industrial area where the DNA lab was located, my thoughts clarified the Sabra Security case, which had morphed into the Prime Mortgage case, which included the Lauren Berger case, and which now included the Derek Randall case. I needed to flush out Siroco: the organization, the personnel, the strengths and weaknesses; I needed to understand what they were trying to accomplish, what was their plan and end goal; and I needed to create a counter-attack that would put them and all their players in a legal coffin and take them off the field for good. That would be the successful resolution of this case. Sometimes it’s easier to work backward from the end goal to where you are in the moment. It’s easier to see the steps to get there.
My immediate tasks were to handle the DNA, pick up Lenny, and get to my yoga class on time. I had just achieved a sense of clarity about things. But, of course, my cell phone chimed and brought me back. I looked; it was James. Shit!
“Yo James.”
“You asshole, where are you?” Whoa, he’s not normally angry. “I called you, man, or Linda, whatever. And you send me an app answer!”
“Slow down, James. I was going to call you next. What’s up?”
“Those FBI pukes came again. They want to talk to you. If I don’t put them in touch with you, they’re taking me to their office… in the city! C’mon man, what have you gotten me into?”
“Give me the name and number. I’ll take care of it right now.”
He hung up on me and texted the name and phone number. I’d never had a cross word with James; we had been friends for ten years and had helped each other many times.
I found the DNA lab easily, a two-story industrial building with a small sign: Madison Biotechnology Solutions. It had a parking lot in front of the entrance, which was about half filled. I parked away from any other cars, tapped in the number James had just given me, and flipped on the record function… which was probably illegal here in Florida, surreptitiously recording a phone call… Whatever. It was answered on the first ring.
“Mr. Sartrelle’s office.”
“Yes, Derek Randall calling. Is he in?”
“He’s in a meeting. Can I take your name and number? He’ll get back to as soon as possible.”
“No, please tell him I’m on the phone. He wants to speak to me. Please do that now.”
“Please hold,” she said, and put me on the hold soundtrack with some kind of clicking noise to indicate she had not disconnected me. After two minutes, he came on.
“Special Agent Sartrelle. You are?”
“Derek Randall. You want to talk to me. You’re harassing my friend James Hardison at Stanford Lab. What do you want?”
“Take it easy, Mr. Randall. This is the FBI. You’ve triggered a national security alert. Whatever you’re doing with that Chinese encryption, we have a mandatory investigation order. Do you know what that is?”
“Well, yes. It’s kind of what it sounds like, right? What exactly do you want?”
“We want to interview you. When can you come in and talk to us?”
“Not soon. I’m out of town.”
“That’s not acceptable, Mr. Randall. This is a national security matter.”
“Well, it’s going to have to do. I’m not in California.”
“I can have you arrested, Mr. Randall. Is that what you want?”
“And I can have my attorney, Raul Mendoza, sue your ass… again! You guys didn’t do so well the last time you went up against him. Is that what you want?” Raul had embarrassed the San Francisco FBI office last year and had settled that case for real money. Very few attorneys sue the FBI, and only a small percentage of those cases are won. He was that good… and he was my attorney.
“You need to come in and talk to us. Knock off the emotionality.”
“Give me a name and number in Miami.”
“It’s not quite that easy.”
“You can make it that easy, Agent Sartrelle. Figure it out, and give me someone to talk to in the Miami area. If my attorney sues you for harassing me, and James for that matter, that will be a career-ender for you. Is that what you want?”
He paused for over a minute, considering his options. FBI guys, especially the more senior ones, were not used to taking crap or dealing with citizens who had any kind of power, money or legal—and I had both!
“Okay, tough guy. I’ll get one of our agents in the Miami field office to interview you.”
“Text me the name and number on my cell phone. I’ll contact him at the beginning of the week. I assure you, I’ll make that call.” I clicked off, Miami style. I thought I’d given him something of a victory with the assurance I’d call the new agent here in Miami. I also knew that he had probably already geolocated me and could have me arrested in about five minutes if he wanted to. Our government could do some amazing things, a lot of them not so nice—perhaps I should have been more courteous to him.
* * *
The receptionist at Madison Biotechnology Solutions was wearing a lab coat and wore some kind of eye goggles around her neck and under her chin; apparently, she was doing double duty. When I gave my name, she said that Mr. Grimes would be right with me. I felt Linda’s footprints here. The receptionist dialed a number and said Mr. Grimes had “an appointment.” Within one minute, a rail-thin guy with a balding head, some hair left on the sides above his ears, and glasses with coke-bottle lenses came walking out, also in a white lab coat.
“Mr. Randall, Peter Grimes,” he said, offering a business card with his left hand and his right to shake. A good start. He had some obvious people skills.
“Good to meet you, Peter,” I said, shaking his hand firmly and checking him out. He was confident in spite of his nerdy exterior. Good so far. I offered him my business card and said, “I have a sample for DNA analysis.”
“Let’s go to my office,” he suggested.
I followed him through a hall to the back of the building and entered after him into a small room with a desk, one chair, and about a million books and magazines and files—paper pandemonium.
“What do you got?” he asked as I sat down.
I opened my briefcase and got out the tape. I handed it to him. His eyes focused on the tape, then on me, then back to the tape.
“Where’d you get this?” he asked. “Are you Company?” I knew I was in the right place.
“No… but it’s good that you know what that is. I’m a cyber security consultant. A friend gave me these. Sometimes I get to use them.” I paused while he continued to examine the tape. “Can you do the DNA analysis?”
“We do the FBI work, Company sometimes, DHS, local cops. We’re the best at this. When do you need it?”
“As soon as possible… What else would I say?”
“For people off the street, it’s two weeks. For our friends in law enforcement, it’s three days. And we offer expedited service for a premium, one day. Three thousand.”
“Okay, do it in a day. You want the money now?”
“Yes.”
“Cash okay?”
“Yes.”
I reached into my briefcase, grabbed thirty hundred-dollar bills, and handed them to him. “Give me a receipt.”
“You’re paying cash… Why do you want a receipt?” He was a little surprised because the cash part of the transaction would probably go directly into his pocket.
“Yes,” I said, not really answering his question.
He opened his front desk drawer, pulled out a piece of paper, and wrote out the receipt on company letterhead: One DNA analysis, one day, $3K. I noticed that he had not put a date on it and let that slide. I filed the paper in my briefcase, stood up, and told him to send the results to both me and Linda. He noted the email addresses.
“I look forward to that analysis.”
“Mr. Randall… We don’t disappoint.”
“Thank you, Peter. Nice doing business with you.” We shook over his desk. I said, “Tomorrow,” and he nodded.
I left his office, left the building, and got in my car. Next stop: MIA, right down the road.
* * *
The distance from Madison to MIA was maybe two miles, but because of heavy traffic, which seemed to invariably surround every major airport in the world, it would take more than the normal time. I checked my cell, where Linda had sent the route to the best parking lot, the best entrance into the airport, and internal directions to the arrivals exit to meet Lenny’s plane—damn, she was good.
As I was checking the routing on my cell, it chimed a call from Olivia, the feisty reporter. I accepted it immediately. “Hello Olivia.”
“So… where’s the information you promised?”
Was she always this blunt?
“I’ve got a lot for you… but it’s not the time. I can’t give it to you yet. Maybe Monday.”
“Are you playing me?” Now she sounded angry.
“No, Olivia. I told you, I’ll share it when the time is right. It’s more complicated than giving simple information. It’s a heavy situation, and you will be very happy with it when you get it. What do you have?”
“Okay… okay… It’s something. There’s going to be a hearing on Monday for those Siroco guys who got arrested. It’s scheduled for eight-thirty in Department 141 at the main courthouse. Those companies you gave me, there’s nothing unusual about them. Was that some kind of test?”
“No, Olivia. They’re all involved. You’ll see. It’s a big case, a lot of moving parts. You’re going to win a Pulitzer for this, I promise. I’ll probably be there Monday. You think it will actually happen? I mean, those things get continued a lot.”
“This one will happen. My source at the courthouse tells me the judge is pissed about this one. Not sure why, though. Okay, see you Monday… And you better give me something soon, you understand?”
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