The Ericksen Connection

by Barry Becker

  his contacts. He looked up and noticed Caldwell’s MBA framed on the wall.

  “Nice job.”

  “I have to admit, the MBA from the IMD in Lausanne was an Agency perk.”

  “Elizabeth is a great recruiter. She even placed my Swiss counter- part. I’m sure he had other things on his mind when she interviewed him,” Jacobson said jokingly.

  Caldwell shook her head, rolled her eyes, and frowned at Jacob- son. “That’s bullshit. Hans Christian is a gentleman.”

  “Where’s your sense of humor?”

  She shook her head again. “Dave’s such a character.”

  “When I tried to turn him into an asset, he told me he worked undercover for the Swiss Federal Police to investigate Otto Steiner and Monch and Schneider Bank. To this day he doesn’t have a clue about you being a NOC, just an executive recruiter in the Swiss banking industry,” Jacobson explained.

  Turning to Erickson, He asked, “Do you have any plans later this afternoon?”

  “No. How about meeting me at three o’clock at the boat ramp? We can take a lake cruise and enjoy the scenery.”

  “Sounds fine.”

  Caldwell turned to Ericksen, “Mark, are you hungry for lunch?” “Yes, I am.”

  “I’ve made reservations for lunch at one of my favorite places in Geneva.”

  “Make sure she picks up the tab.”

  She shrugged her shoulders, “Don’t worry. They take plastic.” Fifteen minutes later Caldwell drove her BMW up to the valet at

  La Perle du Luc restaurant on the Rue de Lausanne. She gave the valet the keys to her car. She and Ericksen walked into the restaurant. The maître d’ handed them menus and escorted them to an outside table on the open-air terrace with a beautiful view of Mt. Blanc and Lake Leman. The waiter approached their table. “What would you like for lunch?” the waiter asked in French.

  “I’ll have the lobster bisque and quiche Lorraine,” she replied in French as well. “And you, sir?”

  “I’ll have the trout and a Carlsberg beer,” He said in English. “What would you like to drink, madam?”

  “A cappuccino and Evian water please.” Elizabeth gave the menus back to the waiter. “Don’t worry, I’m picking up the tab,” she said and smiled.

  He filled her in on his meeting with the Jurgen Reiter and his newly acquired private Swiss numbered account. It was Caldwell who insisted on the bank. He explained to her what transpired during his time in Jeddah and his dinner on The Dolphin Prince. “It was like having dinner at a five-star resort hotel on the water.”

  He recognized Caldwell’s professional dedication to detail, and her ability to fit into the Swiss culture as a seamless modus operandi. Her French impressed him, along with her ability to pull off her role as an executive recruiter in the banking industry. He wondered if she in a relationship, married, or just too busy as a professional career- oriented CIA officer.

  Ericksen arrived back at his hotel to check for messages. At three o’clock he left and walked to the boat ramp. He thought about the four tragic events in his life: the death of his wife, killing Bashir Sadozai, PTSD, and the terrorist hotel bombing in Egypt. From the moment of his Navy discharge to the present, he had found it difficult to develop any long-term relationships with the women he dated. He realized he refused to let go of his wife’s memory, but most impor- tantly, both his PTSD and his dedication to becoming a successful businessman had prevented any potential relationships from blooming.

  During his first year at Cambridge Defense Systems, he had expe- rienced periodic bouts of depression. On some weekends he either got drunk in Georgetown bars or his apartment. A few times during this period, he would wake up in bed surprised to find a woman lying next to him. At the time, being drunk and engaged in one-night stands erased the depression and anxieties he tried to repress. It didn’t take long for him to realize his actions were stupid.

  Ericksen began to focus his energies at work, and on his next

  performance review, his supervisor recommended he explore the Executive MBA program at the University of Virginia. Six months later, he only had time for work and grad school. During the night his nightmares would occupy his mind.

  Once he accepted the position at EyeD4 Systems and returned to the Pacific Northwest, his sister Mia and his old alumni friends from Oregon State tried to fix him up with women who were interested in marriage. His objectives focused on working with Dr. Holtzman and building a successful company. After a year of therapy, he started feeling better.

  His thoughts came back to the moment – Geneva. Tomorrow evening he would again be with Caldwell.

  Ericksen heard footsteps, turned to his right and spotted Jacob- son. They greeted each other and boarded a steamer for a lake cruise to Nyon. A few minutes later, Jacobson handed a photo for him to see. “This is the photo linking Dawkins to the Banque Matthias Reiter.”

  Ericksen’s eyes zeroed in on the photo of Dawkins being escorted by Reiter into the lobby of the Banque Matthias Reiter. He nodded, “We’re going to nail this son-of-a-bitch!”

  43

  ampbell and Sullivan played racquetball at the exclusive Olympic Gold Racquetball Club in McLean, Virginia. At fifty-six, the five-foot-ten, medium-build Campbell lacked

  athleticism, but he enjoyed the gentry sports: tennis, golf, racquetball, and horseback riding. He had grown up in Kansas, not far from Wichita. His family was wheat growers, and money had never posed any problems for them. His parents had sent him off to Phillips Exeter Academy in New Hampshire. He enjoyed the friendship of many of his fellow students who later in life became successful busi- nessmen and politicians.

  He spent four years at an Ivy League university in New England majoring in political science. His fraternity brother, Bentley Ridge- way, shared the same interests: parties, football games, and their major course of study, political science. Campbell displayed a streak of arrogance, intelligence, and opportunistic tendencies that bordered on shrewdness and greed. His fraternity brother later became President of the United States. In April 2008, President Ridgeway appointed Senator Campbell to the position of Director of National Intelligence. Campbell had an insecurity problem, though his overtly egotistical presence masked it.

  He had been married for over thirty years to a woman from Boston who taught elementary school. She had quit her job to raise their children. She complemented his appetite for social climbing within the political establishment. Being an ass-kisser in Washington appeared to be the norm. Their rocky marriage produced two chil- dren. They spent their weekends on their hundred-acre-plus estate in Virginia, where they maintained a stable of thoroughbreds. During the week they lived in an upscale condo in the Watergate Hotel in DC.

  Sullivan had grown up in Columbia, Missouri, where his father was a professor at the University of Missouri, and his mother taught music. He won a baseball scholarship at UCLA, posted thirty wins as a college pitcher, and enjoyed fraternity life as a member of Sigma Chi. He took Air Force ROTC and upon graduation in 1972 was commissioned a second lieutenant. After four years as an Air Force intelligence officer, he was recruited by the CIA. He spent close to thirty years with the Agency, which included service as a Special Operations Group officer in Pakistan, from 1983 to 1985, then promoted into the former Directorate of Operations. In 2003, he became Director of the CIA’s Counterterrorism Center; in 2005, Director of the National Clandestine Service; and in July 2008, Presi- dent Ridgeway appointed him to be the new CIA Director.

  Sullivan enjoyed good relations with his three adult children from

  an early marriage. His son, US Marine Captain Ryan Sullivan, had been killed in 2005 by an IED in Iraq. In 2006 he remarried a woman who worked for a Public Relations firm in Washington DC. Sullivan allocated much of his spare time to being active in sports and phys- ical exercise. At six-feet-even, the lean, muscular and handsome director played a good game of tennis and participated in triathlon events. Being intelligent, loyal, trustworthy, objective, and results- or
iented, he had a difficult time working for Campbell, who he thought didn’t deserve any measure of respect.

  After playing for an hour, they both walked back to the locker room and headed for the sauna. When the two were alone, Sullivan informed Campbell, “One of our case officers received a hot tip from the Swiss Federal Police on Banque Matthias Reiter in Geneva.”

  Campbell’s face stiffened up, and in a serious tone, he asked, “Listen to me. The Russians and Al-Bustani do their banking in Zurich, correct?”

  “True. Ryzhkov also has an account at Banque Matthias Reiter.”

  Campbell nervously rubbed his fingers with his thumb. “Just focus on Monch and Schneider.”

  “Don’t you want us to explore the Russian arms dealers’ activities in Geneva?”

  “It isn’t critical at this time,” Campbell snapped.

  Geiger and Sullivan left the marina on the FBI’s eighty-foot yacht Blue Knight and cruised down the Potomac River, off Quantico. Four FBI heavily armed security officers were on the boat, while two Coast Guard gunboats provided protection alongside. Sullivan had on a tan short-sleeve sports shirt, khaki shorts, and wore Sperry Top-Sider shoes. Geiger wore a blue sports shirt, white slacks, and sneakers. He navigated the yacht’s steering wheel down the river.

  “What did Campbell say to you?” Geiger asked. “His behavior is quite bizarre.”

  “In what way?”

  “He doesn’t want us to monitor a Swiss bank in Geneva that we suspect is involved in arms dealing and terrorist financing.”

  Geiger called one of the FBI supervisors who co-captained Blue Knight and asked him to take over. They both stepped downstairs to the salon. “Bill, what I’m going to tell you must remain in the strictest of confidence because the Justice Department has an ongoing investi- gation into both Campbell and Dawkins’ alleged fraud, corruption, and money-laundering operations, covering the period of 2003–2006. Additional charges are pending for Dawkins – murder.”

  “Murder!”

  “I’ll explain. We’re the lead agency investigating. This period covered when Campbell exerted lots of influence on various committees and through his contacts within the State Department. During his time in the Senate, he served on three significant

  committees: Senate Appropriations, Department of State and Foreign Operations; and the Senate Select Committee on Intel- ligence.”

  “Pete, you can’t be serious. Do you have any proof?”

  “We believe Dawkins deposited monies into a private numbered account in Liechtenstein and Switzerland during 2003 through August 2004, while still on active duty. The trail continued shortly after Dawkins joined Stealth Dynamics. Being privy to upcoming bids in Iraq and Afghanistan through Campbell’s influence with State, cemented the contracts,” Geiger said.

  Sullivan took a swig of Apple juice. “Dawkins is a piece of work. When I was chief-of-station in Saudi Arabia, Dawkins served as a military attaché at the embassy. I worked with him briefly before he transferred to Cairo. The man was aloof, unreliable, and as cold as ice.”

  “This is where it gets interesting. Four senior Army contracting officers in Iraq received millions of dollars in cash to disburse to private contractors and ministries. There were hardly any records kept on how the money had to be spent, allocated, and distributed. Several soldiers swore under oath having seen Dawkins with these men, and later those contracting officers turned up dead.”

  “When were the bodies discovered?” asked Sullivan. “Sometime around the summer of 2004.”

  “Do you have any witnesses?” “Not a fucking one.”

  “Where do you think the money wound up?” “Liechtenstein.”

  “Have you been able to get the cooperation from their bank?”

  “No. However, a former Liechtenstein banker claims to have seen over twenty million dollars deposited into Dawkins’ private account. Then last year, he closed his account.”

  “Anymore on Dawkins or Campbell?”

  “Well, two months ago our agents took several photos of the Swiss banker, Jurgen Reiter with Campbell at the Mar-a-Lago Golf Resort in Palm Beach.”

  “I think we might be able to get enough evidence to hang both of

  them. Our case officer in Geneva took a photo of Dawkins and Reiter together in the bank lobby recently.”

  “How are you going to get it?” asked Geiger.

  “Our man in Switzerland and his Swiss counterpart are devel- oping a plan of action as we speak.”

  44

  Portland, Oregon

  aldwell’s Horizon Air Lines flight arrived into Portland at 4:45 pm from Spokane on July 15th. After getting off the plane, she waved to Ericksen outside of the security area.

  He greeted her with a formal handshake and took the escalators to the baggage area downstairs. After the thirty-five minute drive, they arrived at his West Linn home. He escorted her to one of the guest bedrooms. His smartphone rang, and he picked it up. “Hello.”

  “The NSA engineer will meet you at your office at six in the evening tomorrow. Elizabeth will keep Z occupied while you’re in the meeting. After the meeting, bring Z with his toys to the engineer, and he’ll fix them,” Sullivan said.

  “Why do you want Elizabeth to stay at my home?”

  “Come on; you’re both adults. I believe you need to bond, so get with the program.” Ericksen had acquired a culinary interest since moving to Portland. He first decided to purchase Giada De Laurentiis’ tri-ply clad cookware set along with other chef-endorsed appliances and recommended cookware. He had remodeled his kitchen the previous year, putting in custom Brazilian cherry cabinets and

  granite countertops. For this evening’s menu, he placed the cast-iron Dutch oven on the burner to prepare a side dish of Angel Hair Pasta. He decided to treat Caldwell to his seafood specialty – Baked Halibut with Arugula Salsa Verde. To top everything off, he went down to his wine cellar and retrieved a prized Stag’s Leap Chardonnay from the Napa Valley, placing it on the dining room table. He took out two Royal Copenhagen plates and Sheffield Viscount cutlery. The white tablecloth was from Belgium.

  “Can I help?” Caldwell asked and smiled. “Are you trying to spoil an Idahoan who grew up on a ranch?”

  Ericksen now transferred the halibut fillets onto each plate and spooned the Arugula Salsa Verde alongside. “It’s not often I have house guests here; however, I sincerely hope you enjoy the dinner.”

  He smiled as he opened up his china cabinet and took down two Waterford crystal wine glasses and filled both glasses.

  At three-forty in the afternoon the next day, the Amtrak train arrived at the Portland train depot downtown. Ericksen and Caldwell were there waiting to pick up Ziad. A few minutes later he appeared, dressed in a casual set of clothes, carrying a large suitcase and a back- pack. He shook his hand and introduced Caldwell to him. After he had placed his luggage in the back of the rented Cadillac Escalade SUV, they drove off to Lake Oswego. They pulled up into the parking lot of the Fairfield Inn in Lake Oswego.

  Ziad provided the front desk clerk with his credit card and received the key to his room. He placed his luggage on his bed and transferred the cellphones from his suitcase to his backpack. He had fifteen pre-paid cellphones, each with two hundred minutes of talk time. They all got back in the SUV and Ericksen drove them to his office.

  EyeD4 Systems Headquarters

  At 6 pm, Ericksen pulled into the Wilsonville, Oregon headquarters’ parking lot. He opened the front door with his key and proceeded to

  his office. He told Caldwell and Ziad to use his office for their meet- ing. Ericksen walked down the hall to Hamilton’s office. He knocked on the door, and Hamilton said, “Come in.”

  Seated in a chair facing Hamilton was an NSA engineer. The slim, long-haired engineer couldn’t be more than thirty-years-of- age. He wore jeans and sneakers. He had met the engineer at Ft. Meade on two previous occasions with his vice-president of engi- neering.

  “I need a few minutes with Mark, and th
en he’ll join you. Just make yourself comfortable. If you want any refreshments, let me know.”

  The engineer shook his head. “No thanks.”

  “I’ll have Mark bring the box in shortly,” Hamilton said. He buzzed his executive assistant.

  “Please escort the gentleman to the conference room.” Hamilton sat down and faced Ericksen.

  “I’ve made up my mind. I’m accepting Kastrup’s offer.” Hamilton cleared his throat. “I’m selling the company. You’re right, without serious capital the chances of success are remote.”

  “I’m glad you made that decision.”

  “Kastrup is sending the documents today for our signature. Starting November 1, you’ll be President and CEO of the company. They told me you would have a great compensation program, including twenty-five thousand shares of stocks. He only had one condition: you have to hire his daughter to be your new Chief Finan- cial Officer.”

  “What’s her background?”

  “Her name is Sofia Kastrup. She worked for a big-eight accounting firm for six years in Silicon Valley handling a few of the major software companies. She took a year off when her son was born and moved with her husband to Lake Oswego, where he accepted a position with a law firm in downtown Portland. She has a Harvard MBA in Finance and is a certified CPA.”

  “That’s fine.” Ericksen gave the victory signal. “Wow!”

  The joy of hearing the news made his heart beat a lot faster, like a marathon runner passing his closest rival with a few yards to go. He

  stood up, smiled, excused himself and headed for the conference room.

  Ericksen opened the two boxes, removed four laptop computers, and placed them on the table. “I’ve embedded four powerful GPS tracking software systems into these rugged, tempest-shielded laptop computers. The terrorist IT expert will expect some level of shield- ing, but this is the lowest level,” the NSA engineer said.