“Go on, Simmons,” he said.
“When the Scotland Yard officers arrived, they found Greene’s secretary arguing with two men. The men had been speaking about giving up on working with Greene and told the secretary they were there, instead, to sell him some files and wash their hands of a project. They identified themselves as Boris Nazarov, a businessman, and one Dr Anton Laschenko, a former Soviet academic.”
“Dr Laschenko, you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“As in the academic from the St Petersburg State Mining Institute?”
After a slight pause, Simmons said, “Yes, sir.”
Hutton was well acquainted with the case of Anton Laschenko, which was largely unknown to the public. Four years prior, a former girlfriend of the academic had fallen in with the wrong crowd in Moscow and had drunkenly revealed her ex’s old exploits as a ghostwriter of doctoral theses. The indiscreet disclosure had traveled to the ears of those who mattered in Russia. It made Laschenko a wanted man and he’d fled. He was presumed dead by his circle of friends and acquaintances. But, as Hutton’s CIA contacts had once revealed, the academic was living comfortably under a new identity in California. That was his reward for passing on information about Soviet degree mills that could be tactically revealed by the US to deeply embarrass the very top of Russia’s hierarchy.
“So there was some sort of con game taking place there with this ‘Dr Laschenko,’ then,” Hutton said.
“How did you–” Simmons began, but cleared his throat and quickly changed course. “Precisely, sir. The men who called themselves Nazarov and Laschenko are two slippery Russian fraudsters wanted for preying on high net worth individuals in London. There are warrants for their arrest that go back almost a decade. One of the officers who went to call on Greene had been part of Scotland Yard’s Fraud Squad a few years back. He recognized them instantly.
“After they left Greene’s flat, Scotland Yard nabbed the men on those outstanding warrants. And what did they find on them? Geological surveys, maps and other papers related to Syron Lake.”
“Interesting.”
“The documents show a massive vein of gold running through the Syron Lake property owned by Magrelma. And, from the looks of things, it’s closest to the surface right under the tailings pond that was breached.”
“Ah, so that’s the reason, then,” Hutton said. “That’s why Mahler was killed. He stood in the way of Greene’s plans to mine for gold.”
“Fool’s gold, sir.”
“Not even that, Simmons,” Hutton said. “Fool’s gold is a real substance. Iron pyrite. It’s a common mineral that inexperienced miners mistake for gold because it’s shiny and yellow. But it’s actually worthless. In this case, the fake academic would have been selling Greene information about imaginary gold.”
“That’s right, sir. The documents are forgeries. Nazarov and Laschenko have implicated a third person in their scheme. A retired Imperial College professor. Said they paid him to vouch for the authenticity of the file.”
“So where do we go with all of this?”
“Scotland Yard’s interrogators were quite accommodating, sir. At our request, they hinted to the Russians they would try to cut a deal on previous frauds if the men told all they knew about Greene. Scotland Yard didn’t mention Mahler or the breached dam. But the Russians spilled the beans. They volunteered that Greene had a partner who’d been blocking the project and that he boasted of eliminating him so he could breach the tailings pond. London says the Russians would testify if ever needed.”
“That’s helpful. Though they don’t sound like the world’s most credible witnesses.”
“Since Greene has gone underground, perhaps, sir, it may be time to ask for Interpol’s help in bringing him in for questioning.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll get that process in train right away.”
“And Simmons…”
“Yes, sir?”
“Excellent job.”
Chapter 106
Hutton called Secretary of State Angela Roseau’s office and learned the best chance of catching her was as she was leaving the Capitol after a series of meetings there.
He hated the place, felt strong enmity with the “honorable men” who crawled its corridors. But he could endure its rancid odor if it meant he could spend a few moments with her.
He waited in a walkway along which he thought she would certainly pass. Sure enough, there she was. And walking beside her, no doubt planning her next meeting or her next day, was her ever-present chief of staff Kathy Wang.
“Angela,” he said.
She looked up and widened her eyes as she recognized him. “What are you doing in these parts?”
“May I have a word with you for a moment?”
She stopped, and with a slight tilt of her head, she sent Wang ahead.
“Robert, it’s always great to see you, but I can’t linger too long.” There was little enthusiasm in her voice. “Hell of a day it is, and we’re only halfway through today’s agenda.”
“There’ve been some major developments in the Mahler investigation.”
Her eyes grew in intensity. He had her full attention.
“We’re pretty certain we know who did it and why. I just thought you’d like to know.”
She ran her right index finger along the single strand of pearls around her neck.
“Walk with me,” she said
He told of what he’d learned from Simmons, but in reverse, starting with Daniel Greene’s greed and delusion.
This wasn’t how he’d imagined it, this triumphal moment when he would lay the results of his men’s superior sleuthing work at her feet to give her at least the comfort of understanding what had led to the demise of her former fiancé. She was forcing him to tell it at a hurried pace, and under circumstances that didn’t allow him to see her eyes or the expression on her face.
“So he died for nothing?” he heard her say. “Killed over some cheap fraud?”
“Yes, at the hands of the son of one of the partners with whom he built that company.”
She sighed. “It’s hard to even begin to grasp how tragic that is.”
“Don’t worry. Magrelma will not remain in existence much longer. Greene won’t have any spoils to enjoy.”
Hutton had already been contemplating seeing to it that the plug would be pulled on the company. He had in mind a list of investment bankers among Magrelma’s backers that he needed to call. It was time to close up that shop that had long outlived its usefulness, he thought.
Now that the case had been all but tied up, he felt a twinge of disappointment that this connection with Angela Roseau was coming to an end. He wanted to prolong the moment with her. He related the Florida events, and the Trinidad events, and told her about the recordings the two Canadians had shown his agent.
Roseau stopped abruptly when he got to the part about Peabody.
She held on to his upper arm and squeezed it. He saw her fold her lips and look off in the distance, as if her neurons had gone into overdrive.
“Those tapes,” she said, “how soon can you get me a copy of them?”
“Right away.”
“And this Syron Lake file with the two murders?”
“That, too, is no problem.”
“Great.” Her eyes brightened for the first time since he had come upon her. “I want everything, and I mean everything, you’ve got on this investigation, Robert. Can you do that for me? Immediately?”
“Consider it done.”
“Who knows about this?”
“So far a couple of agents on the case and the Canadians involved.”
“Could you keep a tight lid on this? As in hermetically sealed?”
“I can try.”
“You must do better than try. This is important. None of this must get out.”
“I’ll do my best.”
She tilted her head and stared at him.
“I’ll see to it,” Hutton said.
“Excellent! Thank you, Robert. I’ll be anxiously awaiting that file.”
A smile began to form on her lips, but she didn’t linger long enough for Hutton to see the glee that sparkled in her eyes.
“Call the president and tell him I need to speak with him urgently,” he heard her say to Wang. “I’ll need to use The Farm. And get someone in Ottawa to visit Danforth and confirm his position on certain issues. I think….”
She was off, doing her thing. Planning her schemes, making her next moves.
All through this encounter she still didn’t seem to have really seen him.
What would it take?
He shook his head and turned to find another exit so that he would not have to trail her down the corridor.
Chapter 107
It was just past six in the evening. Parker and I sat at the kitchen table, playing gin rummy. The television was showing CNN news, with the volume on low.
We had just finished a dinner of spaghetti and pasta sauce from a tin that I’d found in the cupboard. It was a respite from the pizza and MSG-laden Chinese take-out we’d been fed over the two days we’d spent at the safe house.
I was tired of being in this sterile place. I’d had enough of giving statements to various officers and recounting the ordeal we’d been through. With all the interviews and a visit by a doctor who cautioned me to take things easy because of the whiplash, I hadn’t set foot outside.
I was beginning to feel as if I was under house arrest and was being punished when I had been the one trying to bring a corrupt company to justice.
Simmons had assured us that this would end soon and we could go back to normal life. I wanted to ask him to give me a timeline, but he had been scarce all day.
He had called an hour earlier and said to expect an important visitor after supper.
Parker shuffled the pack of cards at lightening speed. “So, you really thought I was doing Demetriou’s bidding all along?”
I shrugged. “When you’re new in a place, it’s sometimes hard to know who to trust.”
“For the most part, I can’t stand the man.”
“That makes two of us.”
“He’s good buddies with my boss. They’ve been friends since high school. And I can’t stand my boss either.”
“Lucky you.”
We laughed, and I thought about something for a while that made me sigh. “So you’re not seeing any connection between Demetriou and Osgood’s murder.”
“No. This looks like it’s all on the company and those three Americans.”
“And it had nothing to do with what Osgood said about Demetriou during the election?”
“I don’t think Syron Lake politics had anything to do with Osgood’s death.”
“And you don’t think Demetriou was acting for the company when he tried to scare me off doing anything about the spill?”
“From what I’ve heard about the investigation so far, it seems those three Americans were taking orders from some high company official in London,” Parker said.
“In England, you mean?”
Parker nodded. “So this seems like it was way out of Demetriou’s league. Can’t say for certain, but from the looks of it, I’d say Demetriou was simply looking out for his own bottom line when he wanted to shoot down any alarm you wanted to raise. From his perspective, anything that doesn’t paint a rosy picture of Syron Lake harms tourism, scares off retirees, and takes money out of his pocket.”
“As much as I dislike Demetriou,” I said, “it’s a relief to think Syron Lake doesn’t have a murderer as our mayor.”
Footsteps sounded through the living room and Parker and I turned to look at the open door. Simmons walked into the kitchen, then stood aside, extending his arm toward us.
“They’re in here, sir,” he said.
A tall, older man in an expensive suit entered, carrying a briefcase. I recognized him instantly. By the glance Parker gave me, he recognized him too.
“Director Hutton,” Simmons said, “Detective Sergeant Paul Parker and Ms Stella Jacob.”
Simmons stretched his hand and made an arc that took in the three of us. “Paul, Stella, this is the Director of the FBI.”
Parker jumped to his feet and his chair noisily scraped the floor.
“Sir,” he said.
Chapter 108
Parker looked up from the one-sheet document the FBI director had placed in front of him along with a silver pen. The tiny, windowless room was bare except for a small round table and the two chairs on which they sat. Hutton had requested to speak with him in private and he now understood why.
He tapped the pads of his fingertips noiselessly on the table top and studied the familiar face of the stranger who had him in a steady gaze.
He had seen him countless times in television interviews, and in newspapers and magazines. It had never crossed his mind that he would have ever seen this man in person, let alone that he’d take up the defensive position he now found himself adopting with him.
Parker edged the pen away with his index finger. “With all due respect, sir, why should I sign this?”
“Come now, Detective Sergeant Parker. It’s a simple enough document to understand.”
“I know what it says. You want me to agree to not say anything about what happened, to anyone — ever. But why should I agree to that?”
“Let’s not make this unpleasant. Should I remind you that four weapons were found inside the abandoned building when the FBI rescued you? Your prints were the only ones on the Beretta.”
Parker squinted at Hutton.
“That particular firearm was among a cache stolen from the Fort Lauderdale home of a wealthy businessman, six months ago,” Hutton said. “We happen to know who’s been fencing them. An underground figure whose misdeeds we’ve turned a blind eye to as he’s served as an informant on occasion. It’s just a matter of time before he resurfaces. With the long rap sheet he’s facing, he’ll want a plea bargain. You can be certain that to save his own skin, he’ll give you up in a heartbeat as the purchaser of that stolen weapon.”
The director leaned back and looked Parker deeply in the eyes. “That would not do much for your career, now, would it?”
Parker matched the older man’s stare. The last sentence punched him in the solar plexus. But he didn’t flinch; at least he thought he didn’t.
“I nearly lost my life getting that evidence. I don’t want to see–”
The director held up his palm. “This matter is being handled comprehensively.”
Parker rapped his fingernails on the table.
“Listen to me, Detective Sergeant,” Hutton said. “You stumbled upon something way beyond your ambit. You did well in protecting Ms Jacob and Jacques Tremblay, and in gathering this evidence. But now it’s time to step back. Let those who are best-placed to handle this situation take things from here.”
Chapter 109
I had finished doing the dishes and was settling down with one of the numerous potboiler novels that lay about the house when Simmons came to fetch me.
I could understand the director wanting to talk with Parker in private as he’d done earlier. I im
agined that they might have discussed law enforcement matters. I couldn’t understand why he wanted to now speak with me alone.
Hutton placed a printed sheet of paper and a pen in front of me.
“I’ll get directly to the point, Ms Jacob. You’ve somehow got entangled in some business that’s pretty nasty as it is. But you must know that what you’ve been exposed to is just the tip of the iceberg. It ties in to some serious investigations that are ongoing and which have major ramifications. A lot is pending on this and we can’t afford to have any part of it jeopardized.”
I glanced at the page before me and my eyes caught the words “in strict confidence.”
“What are you asking of me, Director Hutton?”
“For various reasons, which cannot be disclosed, none of what you know can be repeated outside these walls.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“We need for you to keep all of this strictly confidential, Ms Jacob.”
“I don’t get it. If nothing is supposed to be said, how will there be a trial to convict that man for Ben’s…for Benoit Dromel’s murder? How will that company be brought to justice for releasing millions of gallons of radioactive waste?”
“You use the word justice, Ms Jacob.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Is that what you’re after?”
“Absolutely. That’s why I got involved in any of this. I didn’t want to see the people responsible for the spill getting away with polluting the environment. I wanted justice for our community. And I want to see justice for Benoit Dromel.”
“Justice, Ms Jacob,” Hutton said in a slow, professorial manner, “is a universal principle that existed long before our legal system was established. It is not confined to the tip of a judge’s pen.”
I was trying to read Hutton. I studied the features that were so familiar to me from magazines and newspapers. He was a legend, greatly admired by my editor at The Sentinel, where I’d first heard of him when I took up the crime beat. There was no doubt that he had a broader understanding of the world than I did. And his air of authority made my mousey self quiver. But what he was asking seemed unacceptable to me. I had gone through too much over the last few hours to simply cave in as I normally would in a situation like this.
Run, Girl, Run: A Thriller Page 43