Sandecker sat back, eyeing the crowd outside the Potomac Club and taking one last puff of the cigar, before making a critical decision. He pressed an INTERCOM button and said to Morris, “Change of plans,” he ordered. “Take us to the J. Edgar Hoover Building.”
“Now, Mr. Vice President?”
“Yes,” Sandecker said. “Now.”
“But it’s almost ten o’clock.”
“It’s the FBI,” Sandecker said. “They don’t close up shop for the evening.”
Chapter 47
J. Edgar Hoover Building, Washington, D.C.
The façade of the J. Edgar Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue was made up of concrete blocks and deep-set square windows. It was an architectural style known as Brutalism. And while there were plenty of government edifices of similar design, it seemed most appropriate for the one named after the power-hungry former Director of the FBI.
Even on the brightest day, FBI headquarters was an imposing sight. At night it was like approaching a fortress.
The décor inside was slightly warmer, if still unmistakably government-issue—bland furniture, secured steel doors and a long desk where every visitor had to be identified and checked in, even the sitting Vice President.
The desk administrator, whose name was Trotter, was young, with limited managerial experience—as those placed on the night shift usually were. He seemed perplexed by the situation. He’d had agents appear in the middle of the night, seen suspects or witnesses brought in under cover of darkness, even had the occasional lunatic try to bust into the place claiming that Elvis or Santa Claus was being held captive there, but he’d never had a sitting Vice President stop by for an after-hours visit.
“I’m not sure what to tell you, Mr. Vice President,” he said. “The Director and the Assistant Directors have all gone home. Perhaps you could have one of them look into these files in the morning?”
“Not necessary,” Sandecker said. “I’m here tonight. I just need one of your archivists.”
Kurt offered some additional advice. “What we really need is someone who knows how to access the older files and records.”
“And you are?”
“Kurt Austin, Special Projects Director at NUMA.”
“The underwater guys?”
“That’s us.”
Sandecker took over the conversation. “We’re wasting time. Before you get all worried, we just need to look at some files from the early 1900s. Nothing political, nothing relating to anyone living today, just historical information we’ll be accessing on my clearance.”
Trotter rubbed his hands together and exhaled. The FBI had been dragged into politics way too often in the past decade, but it was unlikely that files from the early 1900s could stir up much of a hornet’s nest. And it was the Vice President asking. “Ms. Curtis would be your best bet,” he said. “And you’re in luck because she’s still here.”
He pulled out a pair of visitor badges, felt odd handing one to the Vice President, but had the two men sign in anyway.
“Something strange about the way he said ‘in luck,’” Sandecker noted.
Kurt nodded. He’d noticed it too.
Trotter used a radio to summon Ms. Curtis and then buzzed them through. “She’ll meet you in the inner foyer,” he said. “Try not to make her mad.”
Kurt attached the visitor badge and followed Sandecker through the inner doors to the second foyer. “Wonder what he meant by that?”
“We’re about to find out,” Sandecker said.
The doors at the far end opened and Ms. Curtis joined them. She was a thin woman, fit and strong for seventy-five years of age. She wore a beige ankle-length skirt, a green top and comfortable sensible shoes. A pair of reading glasses with purple frames dangling from a sparkling chain rested against her chest.
“Hmm,” she said as if surprised or unimpressed. “And I thought this was one of Gary’s late-night jokes. What can I do for you, Mr. Vice President?”
“Glad you recognized me,” Sandecker said.
“Oh, you’re easy to spot,” she said. “You’re colorful.”
Kurt did his best to suppress a laugh.
“We’re looking for some very old files,” Sandecker said. “And once we find them, we may need to wake the Director and clear the viewing of them. That way, you won’t get in trouble for showing them to us. If he gives you any guff, I’ll take the blame.”
“It’s okay,” Ms. Curtis said. “I’m not afraid of the Director. He and I have an understanding.”
Kurt stepped forward. “Kurt Austin,” he said, introducing himself. “You can call me Kurt.”
“Miranda Abigail Curtis,” she said in response. “You can call me Ms. Curtis.”
This time it was Sandecker who struggled not to laugh.
Ms. Curtis turned and waved them forward. “This way, gentlemen.”
They followed her to the far end of what seemed an endless white hall and stepped onto an unadorned elevator, which took them down four levels to the sub-basement of the building. Stepping out of the elevator, they entered a huge open storehouse. It ran under the entire building, covering nearly five acres of space, every square foot of it filled with numbered cabinetry.
The FBI had used this underground vault almost since its inception, adding more storage as time went on. Not all the filing cabinets matched since they’d been purchased and installed at different times over the decades. As Kurt looked at a map of fire exits on a bulletin board, he could see that the layout was circular, with spokes meeting in the center, like a spider’s web.
“Welcome to my parlor,” Ms. Curtis told them as if channeling his thoughts. “The records hall spans the width of the building and the entire space beneath the courtyard right up to Pennsylvania Avenue. We have nearly fifteen million files stored down here, an estimated seven thousand tons of paper. And that doesn’t include computer files or other evidence, which is stored elsewhere.”
“So,” Kurt said. “Do you use the Dewey Decimal System or—”
She fixed him with a withering glare. “Something tells me you were a troublemaker in school, Mr. Austin. We knew how to deal with that type of attitude back in my day.”
“I’ll try to behave,” Kurt said.
“You do that,” she said. “Now, how old are these files you’re looking for?”
“From the 1920s,” Kurt said.
“Then we’ll have to use the old computer,” she said. “Not everything has been brought up to date.”
* * *
—
The streets of Washington were home to more security cameras, motion sensors, security guards and police officers than perhaps any other spot on earth. That was especially true on Pennsylvania Avenue, with its abundance of government buildings. But what the banks of cameras, sensors, guards and police on the street had missed, what even the Vice President’s Secret Service agents and Kurt Austin had not taken notice of, was a large crow sitting on an outstretched branch of a tall tree across from the entrance to the FBI building.
They hadn’t seen it fly down the street or noticed it landing. Nor had anyone questioned what a daylight-loving bird like a crow would be doing out in the middle of the night. Neither had they seen an identical bird sitting atop a streetlight a hundred yards down the road.
The crow in the tree and its twin on the pole were mechanical devices made of lightweight Space Age materials and powered by the next generation of compact lithium-ion batteries. They flew like regular birds, flapping their wings when taking off and gliding when they had enough altitude. They perched and even squawked like the real thing once they had landed. But their iridescent eyes were actually powerful cameras capable of seeing in regular wavelengths and infrared. Hidden in their beaks were sensitive microphones capable of picking up voices at long distances when pointed in the right directions.
The f
irst crow had followed the armored limousine from the Naval Observatory, tracking it to central Washington, where the second crow had picked it up and trailed it to the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Both now rested, awaiting new orders.
Three miles away, a man and a woman sitting in a silver Tesla were arguing about what orders to issue. The woman occupied the driver’s seat while the man was in the back, surrounded by multiple video screens and a pair of lighted keyboards.
He was dressed in dirty clothing and thin enough to be called emaciated. His jet-black hair was fixed in a wild pattern, his ears, eyebrows and nose adorned with stainless steel piercings. The impression he gave was that of a starving tattoo artist.
“The situation is no good,” he said with an Eastern European accent. “It’s gone from bad to worse and now to impossible. We should have taken Austin out on the way over. Before he met with the Vice President. And definitely before they drove to the FBI building.” His voice peaking as he finished the tirade.
The woman scoffed. Her hair was long, straight and dyed from the same bottle as his. She wore a gray hoodie and black stretch pants and running shoes. Physically more fit than he was and free of piercings, she looked like an urban housewife ready to go for a jog.
“It was too soon,” she told him, her voice as flat and unemotional as his was expressive. “The money hadn’t hit our account yet. And we don’t do charity work.”
“You might as well send the money back,” he replied. “We can’t get at Austin in the FBI building.”
“Open your eyes, little brother,” she said. “What do you see?”
“I see the end of a failed experiment.”
“They’re wearing tuxedos,” she pointed out. “They have other places to be. They’ll be back out soon enough.”
“And right back into a limousine you’d need an antitank missile to obliterate.”
Fydor and Xandra were brother and sister. They argued incessantly but stuck together. Working as a team, they had entered the assassination game operating under the name the Toymaker. They were known for their use of intricate devices to deliver poisons, bombs or even pull the trigger remotely on an old-fashioned kill.
She gazed at him. “You’re cute when you’re angry, Fydor, but you’re so timid. You know better than I how far away we’ll be when your machines take action. We just have to wait until they come out.”
Fydor stared at her in shock. “You want to kill Austin in front of the FBI building? With the Vice President at his side and Secret Service agents all around?”
“No,” she said. “I want you to kill them all.”
Fydor looked as if he was going to lose his mind, but Xandra just smiled.
“You see things myopically, little brother. The setup is perfect. If we take them both out and claim the attack in the name of an infamous terrorist organization, everyone will assume it was an attack on the Vice President instead of Austin. The heat will go elsewhere and we’ll be able to walk away without having to break a sweat.”
Fydor shook his head meekly and mumbled something, though he didn’t have it in him to challenge her.
She flicked on her own screen to admire the bird’s-eye view. “Get your other little toys ready to go. We’re not passing up a million dollars just because the level of difficulty has increased.”
Chapter 48
J. Edgar Hoover Building, Archives, Sub-Level 4, Washington, D.C.
Deep beneath the J. Edgar Hoover Building, Kurt, Sandecker and Ms. Curtis discussed the files that Kurt wanted to see. Despite the initial tussling between them, Ms. Curtis quickly warmed to Kurt, especially as he explained the historical quest they were on.
“History’s always been my favorite subject,” she said. “That’s what led me into this job. Down here, I’ve learned all kinds of things you’ll never read about in any book.”
Kurt raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”
“You want to know about Roswell?” she asked. “Want to know what really happened out there?”
“I’d be interested,” Kurt admitted with a grin.
Sandecker cleared his throat purposefully, putting a stop to the fun. “Maybe some other time, Ms. Curtis. We’re here for the information on the Granzini crime family, specifically the classified files related to their activities in 1926 and 1927.”
“All business, this one,” she said. Swiveling in her seat and waking up her computer, she entered in a password and began tapping away at the console. It wasn’t long before she had a list of file numbers and locations. “We have forty-three classified files,” she said. “None of them have been digitized, so I’ll have to go get the dead-tree copies.”
Kurt wouldn’t hear of letting her carry them back on her own and went into the maze with her. They started off in the main aisle, branched off three times and eventually stopped beside a set of gunmetal gray filing cabinets that looked as old as the reports themselves.
“Second level,” Ms. Curtis said, pointing. “Right up there.”
Kurt slid a ladder into place, climbed up and opened the drawer. He checked the numbers she’d given him against the files inside and began pulling out the selected folders. They were yellowed and brittle with age.
One by one, he handed them down. Ms. Curtis kept them organized by placing them in bins on a cart on wheels. When the last was loaded, Kurt climbed back down and pushed the cart toward a reading room, where Sandecker was already waiting.
“I’ll leave you two for an hour,” she said. “Just press the intercom button if you need anything.”
Diving into the paperwork, Kurt and Sandecker soon had the background on the Granzini family.
“Two branches of the family came here in the 1880s. One from Sicily and one from Salerno,” Kurt said.
Sandecker was reading a different set of files. “According to the Treasury Department, they were more a group of smugglers than a true crime family. Specializing in gemstones from Africa, Italian art and sculpture, also silk from China.”
“Those sound like perfectly legitimate businesses to me,” Kurt said.
“Sure,” Sandecker replied, “as long as you pay the import duties, which ran as high as fifty percent back then. Apparently, the Granzini family considered that an optional expense.”
“It does cut into the profit margin,” Kurt said.
“Treasury agents busted them in 1908 and 1913,” Sandecker said. “The New York Attorney General investigated them from 1915 through 1922. The Bureau of Investigation was looking into their activities as early as 1923. By my count, at least five members of the family served time in jail. Several others went overseas during World War One, choosing induction into the Army instead of facing incarceration.”
Kurt was finding similar details in his stack of files. He undid his bow tie, allowing it to hang loose, and undid the top button of his shirt. “This is all very interesting,” he said. “But unless you’ve found something that says they were related to the Roosevelts, I can’t see any reason why these files were classified in the first place, let alone under some obscure Act related to national heritage.”
“You didn’t hear it from me,” Sandecker replied, “but the government does make a mistake every once in a while.”
“You don’t say.”
Kurt put down the report he’d been reading and leafed through the box, studying the names of various agencies as they appeared on the labels of the files’ tabs. “Treasury Department, Bureau of Investigation, IRS, Army Intelligence—there are files from a dozen different agencies here. Seems like overkill for a minor family of smugglers.”
“And a complicated situation to piece together,” Sandecker said. “It’ll take the rest of the night to read through all this.”
Kurt figured half of the next day would be spent on it as well. “There is someone who might be able to help us cut to the chase here. She loves history, she’s spent forty
years working with these files and I have a feeling she might be listening at the door.”
Sandecker laughed. “Just don’t ask her about Roswell or the moon landing.”
Kurt pressed the INTERCOM button and asked Ms. Curtis to join them. She arrived moments later.
“Happy to help,” she told them. With Ms. Curtis guiding them, their progress accelerated rapidly. She cut through all the clutter and got them into the files that mattered. “Now, I don’t know what’s in them,” she insisted, smiling as she spoke, “but based on the coding numbers these files were the first to be classified under that National Heritage Act.”
She gave a handful of files to each of them. To Kurt’s surprise, the dossiers came from the State Department. Even more shocking, they spoke of the Granzini family in glowing terms.
“This is interesting,” Kurt said. “Under Calvin Coolidge, the State Department had begun setting up a network of informants. They chose to use crime families with links to Europe. They were trying to keep tabs on the Communists, the Fascists and several other radical groups operating in the postwar landscape. The Granzinis were connected to powerful families in Europe by their smuggling operations and had access to information no journalist or Army Intelligence agent could find.”
“Sounds like Kennedy asking the mob to bump off Castro,” Sandecker said.
“This was a lot more intricate,” Kurt said.
Kurt read on, summarizing what he was learning. “By the time the Roaring Twenties kicked in and everybody was flush with cash, these crime families had become an effective, pre-CIA spy network.”
“That explains why this stuff is classified,” Sandecker said.
Journey of the Pharaohs Page 24