by Larry Bond
“Then I can assume that the FBI’s preparing a written apology to Prince Ibrahim al Saud, and that they’ve called off the dogs?” the former Commerce Secretary pressed further.
“Well …” Preston picked up a fountain pen from his desk and began repeatedly pulling the cap off and then putting it back on.
“Not exactly.”
“Uh-huh.” Garrett leaned back in his chair. He steepled his fingers.
“Let me see if I add this up right, John: Acting on some wild-assed story about a blackmarket nuke, the FBI raids a warehouse leased by a respectable international corporation. A corporation that’s been damned generous to this president and his party. A corporation headed by a Saudi prince who’s known far and wide as a loyal friend of the United States, for Christ’s sake! Jesus, the President himself sat down for coffee with Prince Ibrahim just a couple of weeks ago! You with me so far?”
Without waiting for the White House Chief of Staff’s reaction, Garrett drove on. “Now, then. The FBI finds precisely, exactly nothing during this raid of theirs. No nuclear weapon. No stolen blueprints for Plan 999 from Outer Space. Nothing.
“But instead of slinking home in disgrace, the Hoover Building boneheads are still out there — ripping my client’s duly leased property to pieces and exposing his good name to a possible media scandal.” The former Commerce Secretary leaned forward.
“Does that about sum it up, John?”
Preston spread his hands. “I’ve checked, Dick. There’s no media interest in this story. Not yet.”
“And I thank God for tiny favors!” Garrett said. He snorted.
“The publicity hounds at the FBI usually don’t make a move without putting on their TV makeup.”
Preston colored. “Jesus, Dick. What the hell do you expect me to do? I run the White House staff. I don’t run the Department of Justice or the Bureau. They’re out of my bailiwick.”
“Bullshit.” Garrett looked steadily at the other man. “We both know you and the President have the Attorney General right smack in your back pocket. You say ‘jump’ and she’ll ask you what flavor of moon cheese you want.”
The White House Chief of Staff ignored that. “Leiter’s got an independent streak, though.”
“The FBI Director?” Garrett shook his head. “Use your brains, John. Leiter likes his job. Hell, he loves his job. But he’s got five or six congressional committees gunning for him right now. You think he’s going to want the White House piling on, too?”
“Maybe not.”
The former Commerce Secretary shook his head mournfully.
“Maybe not. C’mon, John. We’ve been friends for twenty years. Get with the program! Do the right thing! You and I both know the FBI’s gonna wind up with crap all over its face if it presses this pointless investigation any further. And we also both know that dragging Prince Ibrahim’s name through the press won’t exactly help you, the administration, or the President.”
Garrett sat back, watching as the other man digested his implied threat. Adding the raw details of Caraco’s political contributions to the stories already in print might finally tip even a cynical public into giving a damn about the way the current president ran his fund-raising operations. If the water got too hot, Ibrahim could always jet off to Riyadh, the French Riveria, or one of the other homes he had scattered around the world. The President and his closest aides would be left hanging — faced by yet another congressional investigation and ever-higher legal Preston sighed. “You’re certain there’s nothing to this rumor the FBI’s following up?”
Garrett chuckled. “That Caraco employees decided to smuggle a nuclear weapon into Texas?” He laughed again, more scornfully this time. “I mean, think about it, John. The FBI’s all hot to trot. and why? Because some of our people got a little overzealous when they cleaned the place up before turning it over to the next tenants. Boy, that sure sounds like a criminal conspiracy to me …”
“I see your point,” Preston said slowly. “Put that way …”
Garrett nodded. “I suggest you do put it that way, John. Exactly that way.” He reached for his briefcase — conscious of another job well done. Prince Ibrahim al Saud paid him well to run interference for Caraco’s business operations in America, and the lawyer-lobbyist believed strongly in providing money value for.
The Special Agent Steve Sanchez grabbed the phone on the second ring, narrowly missing a teetering pile of reports. He’d flown back from Galveston only half an hour before, and he was still trying to dig down to the surface of his desk. “Sanchez.”
“This is Leiter,” the brusque voice on the other end said.
As in Director of the FBI David Leiter, Sanchez realized. He sat up straighter. “Yes, sir.”
“Are you alone?”
Still holding the phone, Sanchez moved around his desk and closed his office door. “I am now, sir.”
“Good.” Leiter took a deep breath. “Agent Sanchez, do you have any — and I mean, any — hard evidence of wrongdoing inside that Caraco Transport warehouse?”
“Not yet, sir,” Sanchez said. Hadn’t the Director read his latest report?
“Then I’m ordering you to close down your probe. Pull all your people off the case and inform the Galveston police that we’ve determined there’s no basis for any further investigation.”
Sanchez couldn’t hide his surprise. “What? You call an EMPTY QUIVER and then cancel it just two days later?”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing, Agent Sanchez,” Leiter said. “Shut it down and send every scrap of paper and computer disk you’ve generated to this office immediately.”
Sanchez sat down, still stunned by the order he’d just received.
The Bureau lived on procedures and regulations, and the Director’s instructions bordered on the illegal. He felt pulled in two directions at the same time. Part of him, the “good soldier” half, just wanted to shut up and do as he was told. The other side, the stubborn truth-seeker that made him a topnotch detective, wanted to demand an explanation.
Leiter must have sensed, or guessed, his indecision. “I can’t tell you much, Agent Sanchez, but it appears that we’ve stumbled into a hornet’s nest here. Caraco has a lot of friends in very high places — and none of them are very happy with what we’re doing.”
The Director’s voice dropped a level.
“The universal word I’m getting — from the Agency, the White House, and the Attorney General’s office — is that we’re barking up the wrong tree. Nobody believes Caraco would involve itself in any illegal activity, let alone something of this magnitude. And frankly, I think the source that triggered this EMPTY QUIVER is highly suspect. I’m tracking that back with the J.S.O.C myself.”
“Sir, I—” Sanchez said.
“The bottom line, Special Agent,” Leiter interrupted, “is that this investigation is more trouble than it’s worth. Without good, solid evidence of wrongdoing, we’re walking a high wire without a net. Do you understand what I mean?”
“I understand that somebody at Caraco is pulling some high-priced strings,” Sanchez said bitterly. He tamped down his temper. This was the perfect end to a perfect couple of days, but blowing up at the Director of the FBI wouldn’t be wise, polite, or career enhancing.
“Then you apprehend the situation perfectly,” Leiter replied. “So close it up, and call me when the material is on its way.”
Sanchez acknowledged and hung up. He paced back and forth in his tiny office, counting to ten, then counting again. Should he obey the order or not? If he really believed Caraco Transport had slipped a nuke into the U.S the answer was obvious. He’d have to disobey the Director — even at the cost of his own career.
But did he really believe that?
The FBI agent considered what he’d learned. The news that Leiter considered the EMPTY QUIVER source tainted wasn’t very reassuring. It wouldn’t be the first time that somebody had tried using the FBI to stick a shiv in a rival corporation’s ribs.
Wa
s that what was going on here? What if Caraco Transport had only cleaned out its warehouse so thoroughly to protect some sort of trade secret? That seemed rather thin, but then so did everything else about this crazy case.
Sanchez grimaced. He just didn’t know enough. And that being the case, he decided to obey orders. Ultimately, Leiter was the boss, and it was his call. If the FBI Director didn’t think investigating Caraco more thoroughly was worth the price of admission, Sanchez would just have to trust his superior’s judgment.
Tysons Corner, Virginia
“They’re shutting the Galveston investigation down?” Farrell said incredulously, staring across the table at the CIA analyst he’d invited to lunch.
Mark Podolski nodded. “I wish I’d known sooner what you were up to, Sam. I would’ve headed you off at the pass before you went galloping off to Fort Bragg.” He took a slug from his diet cola before explaining. “Caraco has connections all over town.
So when the FBI hit that warehouse, their top guy in D.C. started screaming bloody murder at the top of his lungs. And believe me when Dick Garrett gets pissed, the White House listens.”
“You think I jumped the gun?”
Podolski nodded. “Yeah.” He drank more of his soda. “I ran the data you gave me past my team. They all agree. There’s not enough solid stuff there to support the conclusion that somebody inside Caraco has his hands on a Russian nuke.”
Farrell pondered that. Podolski was one of Langley’s best analysts.
He never papered over holes in the data or ignored anomalies.
“So you don’t think anything strange is going on?”
The CIA officer shook his head. “I didn’t say that, Sam.” He folded his napkin and laid it beside the mostly untouched meal on his plate.
“There is a funny pattern there. And I buy the premise that those Su-24 engines were retagged and transshipped all over Europe — and probably into Galveston. But I just don’t see the motive for Caraco to smuggle nukes. If anything, the company’s Russian weapons subsidiary, Arms Export, may be doing a little aviation side business they’d like to keep quiet.”
Farrell frowned. “What about the possibility that those engines contained heroin?”
“That’s certainly more conceivable,” Podolski admitted. Then he held up a cautionary hand. “But I can tell you one thing for certain: Whether it’s drugs or nukes, I don’t think it’s something Caraco’s top echelon knows about.”
“How can you be so sure of that?”
“Do you know much about Caraco, Sam?” the CIA analyst asked.
“Not as much as I’d like,” Farrell said. He nodded toward the cooling plateful of food in front of Podolski. “That’s why I’m picking up the tab at this fancy diner, Mark.”
Podolski looked down at his uneaten pasta, then continued.
“Well, the head honcho is a guy named Ibrahim al Saud he’s literally a prince, a member of the Saudi royal family. And he’s down in our books as a straight shooter.”
“A Saudi prince?” Farrell shook his head and frowned. He’d paid a number of official visits to Saudi Arabia as head of J.S.O.C.
Some of his contacts with the royal family there had left a bad taste in his mouth. A few of the princes were energetic. A great many more were either indolent or just amiably corrupt.
“Ibrahim’s not typical,” Podolski insisted. “I pulled up his dossier before I came here. He’s sharp, shrewd, and tough.
Caraco’s his baby from start to finish. Together with all its subsidiaries, the company’s probably worth somewhere on the order of ten to fifteen billion dollars. He’s not going to rock the boat to smuggle in heroin.”
“And he’s prowestern?”
“Totally,” Podolski said. “He ran a little close to the radical edge as a university student at Cairo, but his family straightened him out — sent him off to Oxford, and then to business school at Harvard. Since then, he’s been a consistent supporter of our interests.”
The CIA analyst idly poked at his pasta dish with a fork and then looked up. “Look, I wouldn’t invite Ibrahim to an Israel Bonds fund-raiser, but he’s a solid guy otherwise. There was even a rumor a couple of years ago that one of the homegrown Saudi terrorist movements had him on a death list.”
Farrell sat up straighter. “Rumor? Or fact?”
“Nothing ever happened. But just in case, he’s built up a pretty reliable little private security force — mostly out of the best troops in the Saudi Royal Army. I’m telling you, Sam, Ibrahim al Saud is not your mysterious Mr. X smuggler.”
Farrell pushed his own virtually untouched plate away. “Okay, I see what you mean. But if Ibrahim hasn’t got a motive to run drugs or nukes into the U.S who else in his company does?”
Podolski shrugged. “You tried the backdoor route with Mayer and the FBI and wound up with nothing. This time, why not just knock on the front door and ask? Caraco has an office in downtown D.C. If somebody on their payroll is padding his salary by running a smuggling operation, they’re gonna want to find the guy and shut him down before it hits the front pages and sends the shareholders screaming for the exits.” Farrell nodded slowly. What the CIA analyst said made sense.
Why not give Caraco’s top management the information they needed to track down their own bad apples?
JUNE 16
Planning Cell, Proprietary Materials Assembly Building, Caraco Complex, Chantilly, Virginia (D MINUS 5)
Prince Ibrahim al Saud surveyed the busy room — one of the two large working spaces in the building’s basement — with a measure of satisfaction. Desks and computer consoles filled the center of the room, and all four walls were lined with maps — maps of the entire United States and detailed plans of individual cities and towns. Most of the activity right now centered on a giant black-and-white weather map.
He watched closely as the planning cell’s meteorologist began updating the chart with the next day’s predicted weather. Until now, the former East German Air Force meteorology officer had only been able to provide statistical information. Now the man was dealing with near-term forecasts — ironically using data supplied by the U.S. National Weather Service.
Ibrahim swung around on Reichardt, who stood close by his shoulder.
“You’re sure that Major Schmidt can provide the accuracy we need?”
“Yes, Highness.” Reichardt shrugged. “But America is a vast country — with widely variable weather. It might be better if we could provide Schmidt with another qualified assistant for this last phase.”
Ibrahim considered that. The German’s suggestion was logical if a bit late in the game. For an instant, he wondered uneasily what else Reichardt had let slip while going after those interfering Americans, Thorn and Gray. “Very well. Assign one of the pilots. Who better to ensure that the major fully understands our requirements?”
Reichardt nodded.
Ibrahim turned back to check the work of the rest of his staff with a careful eye. Several of the computers were set to monitor the Internet and other information services continuously — constantly tracking the routine movements of American military forces and the operations of the major state and federal law enforcement agencies.
Members of the team evaluated the raw information they gathered at regular intervals — discarding any clearly irrelevant data immediately and sifting the rest for any news that might affect his master plan.
“Highness, a phone call has been forwarded from the estate,” announced the clipped, British-accented voice of Hashemi, his chief private secretary. “Mr. Garrett is on line one.”
Ibrahim grunted a reply and waved Reichardt over to one of the other phones so that he could listen in. Whatever news Garrett had would surely be of interest to both of them.
Ibrahim lifted the phone in front of him. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry to trouble you again so soon, Your Highness,” Garrett said smoothly. “But I’ve just had a very interesting call from a retired Army officer. He claims to have important i
nformation about this supposed large-scale smuggling ring operating through some of our subsidiaries.”
Ibrahim turned away from the planning cell. “Oh? Who is that?”
“A Major General Samuel B. Farrell, Highness. He headed the Joint Special Operations Command until a year or so ago.”
Ibrahim exchanged a significant glance with Reichardt. Now they knew who Thorn had used as a conduit to the American authorities. He cleared his throat. “This is interesting news, Richard. I suggest you invite General Farrell to your office this evening to discuss his information.”
Garrett hesitated. “Are you sure that’s wise, Highness? We’ve already gone to considerable trouble to quash these rumors. Meeting Farrell may lend them unnecessary credence.”
Ibrahim shook his head, looking straight across at Reichardt.
“That’s a risk we must be willing to run, my friend. Rumors or not, these are extremely serious allegations. I don’t want to paper them over. Let’s act as the good corporate citizens that we are and offer General Farrell a fair hearing.”
Caraco Offices, Connecticut Avenue, Washington, D.C.
Caraco’s Washington offices occupied the two top floors of a twelve-story building right in the city’s nerve center. The elevator only went up to the eleventh floor.
Sam Farrell stepped off and found himself confronted by both a receptionist and an armed security guard. The receptionist was a stunningly beautiful Asian-American woman.
The guard, with a crew cut and in his mid-thirties, looked like a professional — definitely a step above the usual moonlighting policeman or cop wannabe.
“Good evening, General Farrell,” the receptionist said. “Mr. Garrett is on the phone at the moment, I’m afraid. If you’ll wait in the lounge, I’ll let you know as soon as he’s free.” She indicated a door to the right.
The lounge was designed to impress visitors — and it worked.
One entire wall was glassed in, offering a spectacular view of the White House, the Washington Monument, and Lafayette Park. The taupe carpet was so thick that Farrell left footprints, and the other walls were covered with original oils by contemporary American artists — Hopper, Wyeth, Stella, and Thiebaud not the generic corporate prints for sale at office furniture stores.