Chapter 20
December 8
ATLAS Headquarters
Washington, D.C.
Tex reread the latest report on the AUV investigation. On the off chance it was related, ATLAS had already dispatched a ship to do some forensic salvaging in the area where the college students had reported their boat was blown up by the pirates. Marc di Luca was heading out there in the next day or two, even though they had yet to find anything unusual. This latest report, however, had Tex worried. Although their suspicions were that LockeStarr had to be involved in the theft of the AUV somehow, they hadn’t been able to make the connection, because the company that had managed the port where the theft occurred was above reproach—until an investigator decided to run a past check to see what their record was in other ports.
And that was when he’d apparently discovered that this above-reproach company had taken over the management of that port only six months before the theft. It was the previous six months that made Tex sit up and take notice, even though the record during that time was spotless. The company? LockeStarr. He called McNiel. “You read this report from MI5?”
“I did,” McNiel said. “And I just got a call about something that wasn’t in the report. Dr. Fedorov was definitely seen in the area right before the theft of the AUV. So if Fedorov is working for LockeStarr, that confirms our suspicions that LockeStarr’s responsible for the missing AUV.”
“But what the hell are they doing with it?” Tex asked, as his secretary knocked on his door.
“There’s an FBI agent in the lobby to see you. A Tony Carillo,” she said.
“I’ll be right there,” he told her. Then to Marc, he said, “Carillo’s here now. Let me see if he’s turned up anything on Grogan’s murder.”
“Keep me informed.”
When Tex stepped off the elevator into the lobby of the Washington Recorder, he saw a man, late thirties, dark hair, dark eyes, wearing a charcoal suit, white shirt, and a necktie loosened at the collar. He stood there reading one of the Recorder’s faux articles on the wall. “Tony Carillo?” Tex asked.
“You must be Tex.” Carillo turned, shook hands with him.
“Pearson mentioned you might be stopping by. We can talk in my office.”
Carillo grabbed his overcoat and a leather portfolio from one of the chairs, then followed Tex to the elevator. “You guys really write those articles?” Carillo asked when they got off on Tex’s floor.
“We actually have a couple agents on staff who have talent.”
“You one of them?”
Tex laughed as he directed Carillo into his office, then closed the door. “Let’s just say if I really was working as a journalist, I’d have been fired a long time ago. I’m lucky I can write a competent report.”
“Nice,” Carillo said, looking around. “We get cubicles at the Bureau.”
Tex eyed the industrial gray tile floor and the rather battered wood desk and matching credenza that he’d acquired from the government surplus warehouse. His only concession to luxury was the small fridge, which he had bought himself. “It’s not the most luxurious of digs, but it works.”
“Anything with a goddamned door is luxurious where I work.” Carillo tossed his coat onto one of the two chairs by Tex’s desk, then sat in the other. “So, I take it from everything that’s going on, this mess with Grogan’s murder is the tip of some iceberg?”
“We believe so. We just haven’t figured out which iceberg. You discover anything?”
“Depends. I have a list of phone numbers received from his office, and identified all but one in the few days before he was murdered.”
“What’s the number?”
Carillo handed over a sheet of paper from his portfolio. “It’s the one underlined in red, second to the last, came in just before the senator left for his speech. His secretary didn’t recognize the number, but she said no one unusual called. Just his wife. I might try interviewing the secretary later. She was, uh, overly distraught. I gathered she and the senator were having a fling while the Mrs. was holding down the fort back in his home state.”
“Frankly, I could use something a little more solid than a phone number that can’t be cross-referenced.”
“Maybe this’ll help.” Carillo opened up his portfolio once more, this time pulling out a manila folder, and sliding it across the desk. “It’s a report from our computer forensics about your shooter’s hard drive. Read this, and you’re gonna wonder what’re the chances your suspect, Hollis, hangs himself all on his own in the one exact spot that is out of view of the camera.”
Tex opened the folder, flipped through the pages and pages of printouts. “You mind giving me the Reader’s Digest version?”
“I’m sure one of the Bureau’s computer geeks could say it better, but our shooting suspect liked to dabble in computer viruses. Even though the computer was wiped, we were able to bring up bits and pieces of e-mails he stockpiled from various computer systems he’d hacked into. I’ll let you read what they recovered, but it sort of mirrors this whole nano-chimera-virus-looking-for-Atlantis thing that showed up on his Web site.”
“Chimera virus?” Tex said, turning through the pages with renewed interest.
“He was a conspiracy-theory freak. It’s like he was basing the crap on his Web site from what he found on these e-mails.”
“So you think someone killed him because of these e-mails?”
“Unless you can think of a better reason. Someone went to a lot of trouble to erase this stuff through several layers, which made it difficult to retrieve anything.”
“You look at this, the guy seems like a nutcase. What’s your take on it?”
“The likely scenario? Whoever he hacked must have discovered the security breach, probably set him up to open a loaded e-mail and traced it back to him. Assuming this stuff is as incriminatory as I think, I’m guessing the hackee saw their stuff on the hacker’s computer, probably found his Web site, and saw the connection to the e-mails from their own system. Your shooter was a fairly competent hacker. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t realize anyone would notice.”
“Apparently they did.”
“Yeah. I’m guessing he probably figured that out right around the time someone strung him from those holding cell bars.”
“You think he shot the senator?”
“Put it this way. The cocktail of drugs found in his system was almost too convenient. And from our background on him, he’s got no real experience with a firearm to aim that well, even on a good day. And how the hell’d he get the gun past security into the community college where the speech took place? My opinion? Highly possible that someone was behind him, shot the senator, then placed the gun in his hand. He was so delusional when they picked him up, he wouldn’t have remembered what happened. Perfect patsy.”
“You want a cup?” Tex asked, pushing his chair back, getting up, then walking over to the coffeepot on the credenza beneath the window.
“Thought you’d never ask,” Carillo said. “Black.”
Tex opened the cabinet below, pulled out a mug, filled it and his own, then brought both back over to the desk. He handed Carillo a cup, then sat. “Okay, let’s say we discount the kid as the shooter. You got any ideas on who would want Grogan dead?”
“Since I don’t know what he was involved in, I can’t say. But the obvious? Someone wanted to shut him up.”
Tex wasn’t even sure where to begin reading. “Any of these e-mails prove it?”
“Let’s just say they’re what brought me here. At first glance, most of what they recovered was pretty harmless. Clearly the suspect was out there poking around in several systems, seeing what he could come up with. But this conspiracy stuff? He forwards one of them to another e-mail address. The e-mail he forwarded wasn’t recovered, but he writes in the body of his e-mail, ‘Bio lab, France. I was right. Danger . . .
’ ”
“Right about what?”
“Don’t know. But in another e-mail, he talks about how many people will die from the chimera viruses and needing a stem cell of viruses, whatever the hell that is. Then you go to his Web site and it gets weirder. That’s when you get into the aliens and Atlantis and chimera viruses being manufactured to take over the world. Frankly it reads like a science fiction computer game.”
“Except the kid’s dead.”
“Exactly.”
“Who’d he send the e-mail to?”
“That would be one of the missing links. We’ve got the address, but it’s Web-based and the name attached to it is apparently fabricated.”
Tex flipped through the documents, his eye catching on the printout of the kid’s Web site, thinking of that stolen AUV, and the possibility of a bioweapon. Sure, it sounded bad, but there was nothing to say it wasn’t a hoax or some Web site fantasy with nothing to it. God knew there were a million others just like it on the Internet. But then he read the traces recovered from that last e-mail. One word in particular, actually only a partial word: dorov.
Fedorov?
Tex wondered if he would have caught it had he and McNiel not just finished a conversation about the guy a few minutes ago. “Jesus,” he said, picking up the phone, calling his boss. “McNiel? I just got a report from the FBI. I think you better get in here.”
Chapter 21
December 8
Amsterdam, The Netherlands
A ruse to gain entry into the private offices of the Rijksmuseum was not going to be easy. Then again, Sydney had learned one very important lesson during her years in the FBI. One didn’t need to know all the answers. One just needed to know where to find them. Her go-to man was Michael “Doc” Schermer, an agent working out of the San Francisco field office. If anyone could think of a ruse that would work, Doc Schermer could. Lucky for her, he didn’t get too bent out of shape about receiving calls around three in the morning, especially if it involved looking up obscure pieces of trivia that might help solve a case, even if it wasn’t necessarily sanctioned by the Bureau—or any other government entity.
“Doc? It’s Syd. Sorry to wake you, but I need a favor.”
“This something I might serve jail time for?”
“Not you specifically, but my chances are pretty good. Here’s what I need.” She described the museum, the murder, and their need to get into the victim’s office. He took notes, told her he’d call her back. She and Griffin used the downtime for a quick shopping trip on the Fifth Avenue of Amsterdam for proper attire, after which Sydney procured a hotel room. She took a shower, a quick nap, and finally got a call from Doc Schermer with their plan of action.
“I have two possible scenarios,” he said. “One, you could pose as a representative from the Gardner Museum in Boston, saying you were following up a lead from Faas that had to do with Rembrandt’s The Storm on the Sea of Galilee, stolen about twenty years ago. That would get you in the door from the curiosity factor alone.”
“How so?”
“My feeling? Any director of a museum carrying Rembrandt’s work would give their eyeteeth for even a glimmer of a chance to be the first to see the recovered painting and be the one to tell the world.”
“Might be a little overkill. What’s your other scenario?”
“Every October, the Rijksmuseum celebrates something called National Archive Day. Sort of like an Antiques Roadshow thing, where someone can bring in a piece of artwork, like a painting, print, or even a letter from a famous artist to learn more about it. And though they say they don’t give official statements regarding the authenticity of the piece, they’ll make an assessment as to it being a reproduction or an authentic work.”
“You realize it’s December?”
“Like anyone could miss the Christmas decorations up since the day after Halloween?” he quipped. “Yes. But they also clearly state that it will take several weeks for an answer. So you show up there, saying you spoke with this Faas guy back in October about some piece of art, and he only just asked you to come back because he’d written up something. It does two things. It gets you in the door, and if you’re lucky, you get to follow someone to his office while they look for said missing report.”
“I’m liking the stolen Rembrandt idea better.”
“Then make it the best of both worlds. Have it be a letter from Rembrandt. That would have value to a museum that carries Rembrandts, but not as monumental as the possibility of finding a stolen masterpiece.”
“Thanks, Doc. Let me talk it over with Griffin. See what he thinks.”
“I’ll see what I can dig up for a letter that might work. Send it via e-mail.”
“You are amazing. I owe you.”
“You ever run across the winning lotto ticket, remember you said that.”
She and Griffin decided on the letter from Rembrandt and, as promised, Doc sent out a good facsimile of an aged-looking document that he assured them would whet the appetite of any expert on Rembrandt. “The beauty about this,” Doc told her, “is that you can walk in with a copy—not original.”
“Always appreciated.”
After a little further research on the Internet to verify a few details, then the use of the hotel’s business center to print out the necessary documents, they had what they needed for their operation. Donning their new clothes, Sydney in a double-breasted navy business suit, her hair swept up in a bun at the nape of her neck, and Griffin, charcoal suit, with a burgundy and gray striped tie, they left Griffin’s car behind, instead calling for a cab to take them to the front entrance of the Rijksmuseum, part of which was under construction. Upon entering, they walked to the information desk, where Griffin, positioned a foot behind Sydney, stood silently by while she asked the woman for Faas Meijer.
The woman’s mouth opened, then closed, her flustered look growing, when Sydney added, “We flew in from Boston. We were supposed to meet last week, but I had to reschedule. He should be expecting us.”
“I— Can you wait here one moment?”
“Of course.”
The woman moved to the other end of the counter, picked up a phone, and turning her back, said something too soft for Sydney to hear. A moment later, she returned. “Geert Jansen, the assistant director, will be right out.”
“Thank you.”
About three minutes later, a man in a dark suit walked up, spoke to the woman behind the counter, then faced Sydney and Griffin. “How do you do? I am Geert Jansen.” His Dutch accent was thick, but his English impeccable. “You are from the Gardner?”
“Cindy Carillo,” Sydney said, holding out her hand. “And this is Greg Zachary, insurance adjuster for the Gardner Museum,” she said, indicating Griffin, who held out a card, which the man took. “I’m sure you must know about the Rembrandt letter that Faas Meijer was researching for us?”
“I—no. I do not. I would think he would have mentioned it.”
“Unfortunately our calls to him have gone unanswered, and you can imagine our concern over not hearing from him. It goes without saying that this letter is very valuable.”
“Yes. Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you, but he was killed not too long ago.”
“Oh dear God,” she said, looking at Griffin, covering her mouth with her fingers in what she hoped was a suitable impression of utter shock. “That’s why he hasn’t returned our calls. I—I’m so very sorry to hear this.”
“Yes,” Geert Jansen said. “We’re all very shocked.”
“I feel terrible even asking about it,” she replied, placing her hand over her heart. “But the Rembrandt letter. Do you know if he finished examining it? We’re all very nervous about the results.”
“I must admit that I wasn’t even aware he was working on it.”
“That was part of our agreement. Until we were certain it was authentic, we wer
e not about to let it be known that it even existed. Faas agreed to these terms.”
Jansen clasped his hands as he eyed the briefcase that Griffin held. “I don’t even know where such a piece might be.”
“Perhaps locked in his office?” Griffin suggested.
“Yes. That would make sense.” He patted his pockets, and said, “Let me get my keys.”
“And Mr. Jansen?” Sydney gave a pleading smile. “You can understand our need for the utmost discretion. Should something happen to this item, we would not want to publicly embarrass either the Gardner or the Rijksmuseum. Until we find Faas’s report, we are . . . not even sure what we are dealing with.”
“Of course.” He left them, and Sydney glanced over at Griffin, who gave the slightest tilt of his head as if to say, You’re on track.
Geert Jansen returned shortly thereafter, directing them to follow him. At that same moment, Sydney’s phone vibrated in her purse, and she slid the bag from her shoulder, dug the phone out of the front pocket as she walked. It was Doc Schermer. “Fitz? A slight problem with that scenario I concocted. It won’t fly.”
A soft ping indicated the arrival of the elevator and they stepped on. The doors were closing as she said, “Why not?”
“Faas knows nothing about paintings or even Rembrandt. His expertise was in small antiques.”
Before she could reply, the elevator descended and the signal was lost. They rode to the bottom floor, followed the museum director out, then down a long hallway. He stopped in front of an office door, unlocked it, then stepped aside so they could enter. The compact office was sparsely furnished with only a desk, a file cabinet, a computer on a separate stand, and not a piece of paper in sight. If there was anything, the police had probably boxed it all up, and taken it back to their office as evidence. Even the small cooler on the chair by the door was empty, the sort that might be used to pack a lunch in. The only thing that appeared untouched were the numerous books on the shelves that covered the back wall, each volume on antiques, and she hoped that Griffin noticed, because they were . . . screwed. No other way to put it, she thought.
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