The Huguenot Thief

by L. K. CLEMENT

  Tiffany, who had sat perfectly still during the entire meeting said, “The people at those agencies believe that anyone without a mathematics degree from MIT or Stanford is an idiot.” Major Munez turned in astonishment to his young protégée, who just shrugged and added, “I’m just saying.”

  Thompson mused that Western Civilization would collapse due to bureaucratic infighting, truly the fiddling of Rome while civilization burned; only this time the participants would be sending emails to each other during the fire. He said, “I assume that the FBI disagrees with Homeland?”

  “My command chain wants us to validate the facts and the program’s conclusions. Thompson, let’s start with the Interpol investigation.”

  Thompson looked at the other attendees, and said, “I’ve been on assignment in Charleston for almost a year, investigating a large antiquities theft ring with connections to Charleston. The local FBI office has been aware of my assignment and has provided assistance. The key individual I was investigating was Dr. Adam Chalk.

  “Dr. Chalk is alleged to have been a key participant in an auction scheme. A terrorist group steals an antiquity and notifies Alternative Auctions what they have. Alternative Auctions contacts one of their paid experts, telling the expert that an antiquity has just come to market from an estate, or some other plausible story. The expert attends an auction and states to the potential buyers that the item is authentic, creating the all-important provenance of the item. The final buyer, happy to have a previously unknown antique, pays top dollar. Alternative Auction funnels the money back to the terrorists, using money service companies in South Carolina to disguise who the recipients are.” Thompson paused. “The terrorists don’t have checking accounts.”

  Someone laughed.

  Dr. Umstead furrowed his brow. “Why hasn’t law enforcement closed down the money transfers?” Thompson saw the major and Frank look at each other.

  Frank said, “We can’t. Until South Carolina decides to regulate the money services companies, every crook between Florida and New York is going to launder their cash here.” Major Munez looked thunderously angry, as though discussing this issue violated some unspoken rule.

  South Carolina was the only state that didn’t require the money services companies and funds wiring companies like Western Union to gather the most rudimentary information about their transactions. Anyone could walk into one of these establishments, hand over thousands of dollars, and for an exorbitant fee, wire money to Mexico, Egypt, and France—literally anywhere in the world that had an Internet connection. There were hundreds of these places near I-95, and millions of dollars were illegally transferred every month. He knew, as did everyone else in this room, that hundreds of individuals in SC did nothing but tote illegal cash from place to place, all day

  long.

  Brook Reynolds stood up. “Bunin, with the tacit support of Russia’s government, has been funneling funds from the auctions to certain terrorists in order to gain influence in the area. Bunin’s public statement is that he is saving Christian antiquities. We estimate that Alternative Auctions is responsible for the theft and resale of over three hundred million dollars of antiquities from the Middle East, primarily Iraq and Syria.”

  She waited, and when no questions came, looked at her watch and pointed to the list still on the projector. “I know we’re going out of order of the events on the screen, but bear with me. The CDC doctor is waiting for our call.”

  Brook leaned over the table and pushed a few buttons on the conference phone. “Do we have the CDC on the line? This is Agent Brook Reynolds, FBI Special Agent in Charge for South Carolina.”

  “Dr. Clifford Gilstrom of the CDC is here,” said a voice.

  “Dr. Gilstrom, I understand you have limited time. I have a roomful of people here. Rather than introducing everyone, I’ll send you the names with the transcript of this meeting. Please tell us your findings so far on the Vatican situation.”

  The speakerphone squealed, and Brook adjusted the volume.

  Gilstrom said, “The bacterial agent cultured from the three patients in Rome is a strain of anthrax that is a precursor of strains that exist today. The three researchers were likely exposed when an altar from a convent called Corbie was opened.” Dr. Gilstrom sounded quite energetic. “They were working in one of the Vatican’s controlled environment rooms, thank goodness, and are now under quarantine.”

  Gilstrom continued. “As I said in my email, the strain cultured from the patients in Rome matches the bacteria that caused the Charleston outbreak in 1986.”

  The doctor from DHEC put his hands over his face.

  Frank asked, “Did the CDC have a sample of what caused the Charleston outbreak?”

  “Yes. In 1986, someone sent us a sample that was scanned into our DNA catalog and then forgotten.”

  The name of the convent, Corbie, registered in Thompson’s brain. “Wait a minute; you said the altar was from a convent called Corbie, in France?”

  “I did.”

  “The Vatican called Interpol two weeks ago to report that a reliquary was missing from the Convent of Corbie.” Thompson looked around at the others. “The Vatican told our director that the missing reliquary is in Charleston. It’s from the same altar as the one that caused the anthrax.”

  Chapter 22

  Jack sat in his truck, the engine idling, looking at the rug store, debating what to do. The place was dark. He should go to the police station and show Detective Edson the picture, even though he doubted this information would motivate CPD to reopen the case.

  He put the truck in gear. Glancing back at the rug store, he saw a shadowy figure securing a sign inside of the store’s door. Backing the truck up, he read, “Will reopen at the end of June. Please call Misty Lauren if you need assistance during that time.” The phone number was a local Charleston one.

  Jack abruptly parked again, left the truck, and strode toward the entrance. He banged on the glass so hard the figure started.

  “We are closed,” the man yelled through the glass, gesturing to the sign.

  “I need to speak to you now. It’s important,” Jack shouted, simultaneously slapping the picture on the glass of the door. The man squinted at it, turned to speak to someone, and unlocked the door.

  “Come in, please, sit down. I’m Samuel Sadat, and this is my brother Imran.” He gestured to the second man who was sitting at a banker’s desk a few feet away. Imran looked up, scowled and then began to shuffle papers around on the top of the desk. Against three walls were rugs: rugs rolled, hung, and laid flat on stacks according to their dimensions. They were all different, and all seemed faded.

  “How can I help you?” asked Samuel, still standing. Turning on a small lamp on the wall, he looked at Jack, expectant.

  Jack held the small picture on the wall in the light of the lamp. “This is a picture of my wife getting into a car; this is your car, and this is the two of you, isn’t it?”

  Samuel took the photo to the desk where his brother sat, pulled glasses out of his coat pocket, and studied it closely. He handed it to Imran who glanced at the picture but made no comment.

  He came back to where Jack waited by the door. “Yes, this is our car, and this is my brother and me. You say this is your wife. We know Dr. Strong, of course. She is a frequent visitor.”

  Samuel and Imran glanced at each other briefly, and then Imran said, “I’m sorry, but I did not get your name.”

  “I’m Jack Strong. My wife disappeared the day this picture was taken, April 10th, a month ago.” It occurred to Jack, too late, that confronting these two men alone was one of the most boneheaded things he had ever done. Why, why, why had he not gone directly to the police station?

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Strong. Yes, we did give Dr. Strong a ride to the College that morning. We put her bicycle in the trunk of the car, and then we drove her to the College. She got out, and we lifted her
bike out of the trunk and secured it to one of the bike racks. But, I must ask you, who took this picture, and are you sure it was the same day your wife disappeared?”

  “A man who lives on Church Street took it, and, yes, it was the same day. And you had no idea that this woman was the one whose picture was all over the news for weeks after this date?” Jack could not keep the suspicion from his voice.

  “Mr. Strong,” said Samuel, “we were in our car that day heading to the airport for a trip to New York. We saw her at the stop sign, and we gave her a ride. Nothing more. And you say no one has seen her since that day?”

  Jack stared at these men at a loss for words. Their explanation of why the police had never spoken to them seemed logical and genuine. What could he say? The fact that they were leaving again so soon after their trip just a few weeks ago seemed strange, but he knew nothing of the rug industry.

  He rubbed his eyes and finally asked slowly, “Did she seem upset or worried?”

  Samuel spoke gently. “Mr. Strong, she was a woman dealing with a broken bike. We put our windows down and asked her if she needed help. She said if we didn’t mind putting her old bike in the trunk of our beautiful car then, yes, we could give her a ride.”

  Jack knew that Kate would put it like that . . . her “old bike.” He rubbed his head. “I’m sorry to have bothered you. I’ll have to tell the police about this. They’ll probably want to ask you the same questions.”

  “Of course. Please let them know we will be happy to speak with them, but we are leaving tomorrow for an extended trip, so they should call us today. I am so sorry for your trouble, and I hope that the police can gather some useful information from us. Dr. Strong was in our shop quite often, and we will pray she is found safe and returned home to you.” Samuel handed Jack a card, and gently herded him to the door. Jack stumbled into a beautiful spring morning in Charleston and wondered what in the world he was going to do next.

  He pulled out his cell to call Detective Frank Edson. Jack knew the detective would speak to the Sadats. What good it would do, he didn’t know. What kind of motive would these brothers even have? It didn’t seem that anyone had a reason for harming Kate. Kate’s colleagues, her students, and her family loved her.

  However, she had vanished before.

  Sara had been three months old and colicky. Without a word, Kate had run off, leaving him alone with a screaming baby. His only memory of those two lonely, loud days were his efforts to comfort Sara, his tears flowing over his wailing daughter’s face, mixing with hers.

  What had made her leave this time? What had happened to her? As the days passed without a word from Kate, and absolutely no information as to why, the decision he faced each morning was whether to let Sara spend another day with some sliver of hope, or to tell her Kate was likely dead.

  He put his truck in gear and drove towards the police station. Even if Detective Edson wasn’t there, Jack could at least fill out some paperwork detailing his conversation with the rug owners. Jack did not see Samuel Sadat watching him out of the window of the store.

  After Jack Strong drove off, Samuel turned to Imran, his normal jovial face contorted with rage. “What have you done, Imran? Have you gotten Dr. Strong involved in your activities?”

  His brother looked up from the desk. “If you had not stayed in Egypt for the last three weeks buying more damned rugs, you would have known that,” said Imran. His own voice was calm and low. “She will be returned after the job.”

  Samuel walked over to the desk and slumped in a chair. “This game you are playing with your auctions will not end well.”

  Imran Sadat lifted one shoulder and smirked. He pointed to a stack of rugs that lay on the floor in disarray. “Big brother, stop worrying. Go play with your carpets.”

  Chapter 23

  Everyone was looking at Thompson. He said, “Dr. Gilstrom, are you sure that the strain you have on file as occurring in Charleston and the strain from Rome are the same?”

  There was a long silence on the phone.

  The CDC doctor cleared his throat. “Yes. Our investigators in Rome are sending the reliquary to Atlanta. We will conduct more analysis when it arrives. But if the Vatican believes that the second reliquary is in Charleston, we should assume it is contaminated until we rule out both artifacts as the source for the anthrax.”

  Dr. Gilstrom spoke a few more minutes, speaking English, Thompson was sure, but the words were in scientific jargon. There were no questions from the audience. Only Dr. Umstead seemed to understand everything that Gilstrom said, and his face became paler as the CDC doctor went on.

  Gilstrom finally took a breath and said, “None of the patients in Rome will be released from isolation. I will send field epidemiologists to work with Dr. Umstead.”

  “How serious would an outbreak be?” asked Thompson.

  “This strain of anthrax is showing resistance to our antibiotics. If Anton Bunin is indeed attempting to create a biological weapon, a strain of antibiotic-resistant anthrax is the perfect weapon, assuming he figures out how to disperse it over a large area.”

  There was no sound other than the scribbling of Dr. Umstead.

  “Thank you, Dr. Gilstrom,” said Brook. “We’ll sign off now.” She pushed a button and stood up. “Let’s take a break. I’ve had some agents working on the Charleston Naval Base angle since I first got this email. I need to check in with that team.”

  For ten minutes, the attendees crowded around a table in the back of the room heaped with pastries. Thompson mused that not even the prospect of an ancient disease could diminish the bureaucratic appetite for sugar. He took a cheese Danish and sat down in the back of the room.

  Frank made his way over to Thompson. “I can’t believe that not a single person in this room knew about the anthrax outbreak in 1986.”

  Thompson shrugged. “Why would they know? That was over thirty years ago. Maybe some sailor brought it back from a foreign country. The navy base was open in 1986, right?”

  Brook bolted into the room. She knocked on the table and raised her voice over the conversation. “People, please, sit back down. I have information.”

  Everyone shuffled back to their seats, juggling their pastries and coffee. Brook said, “In 1986, forty percent of a fifteen-person research group died, six in all. From the records the FBI just got from Department of Defense, it appears that the outbreak was contained on base and that DOD told family members it was radiation poisoning. I have no explanation for why DOD didn’t call it anthrax. The FBI is attempting to track down the individuals that were in the group.”

  “Did you find out if health officials in South Carolina knew about this? If so, I might be able to find records in Columbia,” said Dr. Umstead.

  Brook shook her head. “DOD shared the information with no one. The FBI had a difficult time finding anything ourselves. The only thing we know at this point is that they are the same bacteria.”

  “Agent Reynolds, what is it that you expect Charleston Police to do? None of this information is actionable by law enforcement.” Frank was clearly frustrated. “The only indisputable facts we have are that Adam Chalk was murdered, and Kate Strong is missing. I can start rounding up all the chumps that move money for the auction company, but is it likely that they would know anything at all about a biological weapon?”

  “I agree,” said Major Munez.

  Brook ignored the comment. “Dr. Umstead, we need a detailed plan of action if anthrax appears again in South Carolina. Make sure your team knows as much about this bacteria as the CDC team in Atlanta.”

  “Major Munez, I would like your team to work with Chad and tear apart all the parameters of the FIG assumptions.” He started to protest, but Brook continued, “This isn’t just a computer issue. We need real, solid human intelligence. Make sure Chad and Tiffany know the assumptions the program used and validate that they are real world.” The major l
ooked gratified that the computer geeks would have supervision by law enforcement.

  Brook left the room without any further commentary.

  The following hour was a slog, with brief arguments about jurisdiction and ownership, but in the end, a preliminary plan was in place. The primary burden was on the SC Department of Health. DHEC would alert hospitals as to a heightened risk for anthrax patients, as well as mobilize quick response teams, equipped and ready to create isolation units.

  The SAC returned to the meeting after an hour absence and again knocked on the table to get everyone’s attention. Her report was brisk and short. She had found little else on the event in 1986. The deaths of six researchers were kept from the public and local authorities. No cause or vector was ever found, and the file was closed and forgotten.

  The meeting had all but ended when the SC DHEC contingent protested about why, thirty years prior, the United States Government had not bothered to inform the State of SC that anthrax was in the state. Of course, no one knew the answer, and the other team members let the SC Department of Health folks vent their frustration without comment.

  The sun was low in the sky when Frank and Thompson left the FBI meeting. Both were exhausted and had calls with their perspective bosses they needed to make. As they were walking out, Brook said, “Thompson, one more thing.

  “Interpol received a picture from the Vatican of the missing reliquary. Sergei sent it to both of us, and I took the liberty of asking Chad to run it through our image recognition program.”

  “Thanks, Agent Reynolds. I appreciate it, although I doubt anything will come out of it.”

  “The program will take a couple of hours. I’ll call you if we get anything,” she said and headed to the parking lot.