by Frank Hughes
“And her sister? The flight attendant?”
“Her DNA was in the tub.” I grinned without humor. “Guess they must have mislaid the one head while they were hauling all the parts out of there.”
“How does this relate to your insubordination?”
“I told that fucking bureaucrat where to get off, how he’d gotten those women killed.”
He consulted the file. “Witnesses said they were afraid you were going to hit him.” He looked at me over his glasses. “Why didn’t you?”
“He wanted me to. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of getting me fired.”
“A rare instance of restraint on your part.” He closed the file. “And that’s when you were transferred to the Towers, correct?”
“Yes. He requested an FFD and I was assigned to administrative duties.”
“Why weren't you there on 9/11?”
The diner suddenly felt cold and it wasn’t the air conditioning.
“Craig?” he said. “Why weren't you at the office that day?”
“My wife, she had a dental appointment that morning. She said she couldn't make it, work related. She’d gotten them to switch it to me.” I stopped for a moment, thinking about the colossal impact of seemingly insignificant decisions. “I didn't want to go, but she insisted.” I felt the emotion rise and fought it down. “She said those appointments were so hard to get.”
“Did you know she was going to the Trade Center that day?”
I shook my head. “No, she didn't work there. She was Justice. Inspector General’s office.”
“I know. I knew your wife since her undercover days, since before you two met.”
“I know that. You were at her funeral.”
“I also know she seemed to make damn certain you weren't at the Towers on September eleventh.”
44.
John Roma had clearly gone crazy.
“Are you implying she knew what was going to happen?”
“Don't be ridiculous,” he said, flatly. “She was there on a case.”
“What case?”
“Suspected corruption in federal law enforcement.”
“What kind of corruption?”
“Payoffs from drug dealers. You weren’t the only one who thought someone high up at JFK might be involved in drug smuggling.” He looked at me intensely. “Think, did she ever say anything to you?”
“She wouldn’t. We never talked to each other about our investigations.”
“My source at Justice says your name was high on the suspect list.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“No, it isn’t. Little bits and pieces, but they were pointing in your direction. Mary felt the so-called evidence was being spoon fed to them.”
“I was being set up.”
He nodded. “Exactly. Once things started pointing towards you and Treasury, their internal affairs took over and Mary was officially reassigned. But she didn’t let it go, not when it could affect you. She was running down a lead that day. Her visit to the towers was not authorized.”
I didn’t know what to say. My mind was racing.
“Craig. Think about it. What is the one common thread running through all this? Who was in a position to frame you? Who stalled your investigation at Kennedy? Who else was at the Towers that morning?”
“Imperatrice? He’s a pencil pushing bureaucrat.”
“That’s how you saw him. That’s how he wanted to be seen. Just before the attacks he contacted internal affairs with his suspicions about you.”
“Jesus.”
“What is it?”
“Carl.”
“Your DEA friend?”
“Yes. Something he said the other day. Mary was asking him questions about Imperatrice just before her death.”
Roma folded his hands on top of the folder. “Imperatrice has juice. While he was at Customs he cultivated a lot of contacts. Once he left government service, he started exploiting them. He has dirt on just about everybody, and his close relationship with Senator Canfield makes him one of the most powerful and dangerous men in Washington.”
“Is he in charge?”
Roma shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Sandoval thinks it’s de Verdugo. That he faked his own death and is using Cory as a front.”
“That I know is not true. We confirmed the body in the plane using DNA and dental records. Besides, he’d turned legit years ago. After Rojas was killed and the cartel destroyed, he focused on the business. Turned out to be pretty good, too. That company of his became a money machine.”
“So the plane crash was an accident?”
“No. It was definitely murder. Someone sabotaged the oxygen system on the corporate jet. They all passed out before anyone noticed and were dead soon after that. The plane flew until the fuel ran out and crashed near the Canadian border.”
“Who did it?”
“No one knows. The investigators figured it was someone from the past, closing down the last of Rojas’ people.”
“So who is running whatever is going on?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“All I can tell you is it’s not Kohl.”
He looked at me curiously. “What makes you say that?”
“He didn’t know who I was when he confronted me in town. As far as he knew, I was just some private eye the police told him about. But, I was already being followed and Imperatrice talked to me in Vermont. If Kohl was the boss, he’d have already known who I was.”
“Any guesses?”
“Right now, my money is on Canfield.”
“Canfield? The man wants to be President. Why would he get involved in something criminal?”
“Maybe because he knows he’ll never be President.”
“What would stop him?”
“If a drug lord’s granddaughter for a wife isn’t enough,” I said, “maybe the fact that he’s gay.” I smiled at his lack of reaction. “My revelation did not come as a shock to you.”
“There have been rumors, but in this day and age people may be ready. Coming out may not be a disqualifier for him.”
“It is if you’re a Republican and a Mormon, particularly when you’ve spent all this time deceiving everyone. There was that guy in California who ran for the Senate as conservative Republican, then came out when he lost. He never ran for a substantial office again.”
“I remember. I’m curious, how did you find out? That gut instinct again?”
“Sort of. I thought Canfield and his right hand man looked a little too chummy. And there is no spark between him and that firecracker of a wife. Then Sandoval called him a puta.”
“That means whore.”
“Yes, but when used about a man it’s slang for homosexual. If Sandoval knows, it must be common knowledge in Washington.”
“Not really. Rumors, of course, but nothing substantial. There are key people in both parties who do know,” he said, “And some in the press, but these are all political people. They know that once you play that card publicly, it’s burned for good.”
“So they’re saving it in case he runs for President.”
“Yes. In the meantime, they can use that knowledge as, let’s call it leverage, to convince him to support a bill. Or a cause.”
“Like the border fence?” Roma nodded and I said, “If he knows his Presidential ambitions are checkmated, it might just make him mad enough to get involved in something criminal. He said Imperatrice has been advising him for years, and as a Senator he has access to all kinds of classified information. He may have known about Cory’s family, seen her as more than a beard.”
“In any case,” said Roma, “he has some lovely playmates. Besides this link to the Rojas clan, there’s Kohl. He is actually Arnwalten Kohlreiter, a former East German spy. And those men you killed in Vermont? Both were highly trained soldiers. One was ex-Special Forces, the sniper was former GSG9.”
“They’re using mercenaries as muscle. Better th
an ordinary criminals; they have discipline and they know how to take orders.”
“And they make good assassins,” said Roma. “There’ve been a number of killings of cartel members in Mexico, Ecuador and Peru that look like the work of military trained death squads.”
“Like the one at the clinic. If you know about Kohl, what’s he doing running free in the wild?”
“We let him. He was a deep cover agent for the Stasi in West Germany. Infiltrated a big industrial concern and used his position to steal trade secrets and patent information. We suspect he did a little wet work on the side. Anyway, he saw the writing on the wall, no pun intended, and let us turn him a couple of years before communism collapsed.”
“And for that he got a new identity and a free pass.”
“Something like that. He’s been suspected of having a hand in several shady operations over the years, but he’s clever. No one’s been able to pin anything on him.”
“So now I have all this information, but I don’t know why. What do you want from me?”
He sort of smiled. “What is your take on what’s going on up there?”
“Offhand I’d say they’re smuggling coke. It’s a nice set up. Remote, defensible, with a private airfield and clients with diplomatic immunity.”
He was already shaking his head. “No, that isn’t it. Not enough flights, not enough cargo unaccounted for.”
“Maybe it’s just in a trial phase. They’re moving small amounts to test it.”
“I don’t think so. We’ve got a CI on the airport staff. The only suspicious thing he’s ever seen was a truck carrying off two drums of jet fuel.”
“Is he sure it was jet fuel?”
“Watched them load the drums from the airport refueling truck.”
“Where did they go?”
“We don’t really know, although that piece of metal you found tells us where some of them went.”
“The drums, I’m guessing, were yellow.”
“Yes.”
“So what were drums of jet fuel doing in a pile of lumber on a ski slope?”
“We don’t know.”
“You don’t know much.”
“And we never will, unless I get more information.”
“Hence our meeting in such swanky surroundings. You’re still in the market for a loose cannon that can be plausibly denied.”
“Someone, in fact,” he said, “who would be tied to a Mexican drug lord, which is why you still have that money belt.”
“Devious and ruthless.” I gave him a pout. “Do I mean nothing to you?”
“I’m at a standstill. I’d be laughed out of court if I went for a search warrant. Besides, Imperatrice is plugged in all over Washington. I haven’t got a prayer with a normal warrant. What I need is something I can spin as a national security issue, something I can take to the FISA Court, so Imperatrice won’t get wind of it until the FBI SWAT team fast ropes onto their patio.”
“I can see where this is going.”
“We let word leak that you were dead, so they aren’t watching for you. Do for me what you did for Raviv. Find a way back in there and get me something.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“You stay out of jail.”
“I like jail. It’s peaceful.”
“In there you won’t find the boy,” he said. “Or Raviv’s killer.”
“Tell me more.”
45.
Roma had me flown to Denver, where I was left on my own. I used a car service to take me the final leg back to Purchas, arriving shortly before nine in the morning. I found a ski shop and outfitted myself with a set of K2s, a pair of Salomon ski boots, and appropriate clothing. As an added bonus, the shopping spree netted me a free full-day, all mountain ticket. The girl at the register was a little surprised when I paid with cash. I thought for a moment she was going to run the bills through the credit card reader, but her boss showed her how a cash transaction worked.
They let me change in the store, and I walked out ready to go with my street clothes and ski boots in shopping bags. I picked up a small pair of binoculars at Brookstone before catching the trolley to the main lodge.
I stowed my stuff in a coin operated locker and hit the slopes, skiing for a couple of hours to get a feel for the geography and warm up muscles still sore from the other day’s skiing. In the early afternoon I skied off on the side trail that led to Boyd’s chalet, taking up a position just inside the trees where I could see his study windows. I focused the binoculars and dialed his number on one of my new throwaway cells.
“Jeffrey Boyd,” he said, after three rings.
“Nick Craig.”
I heard a little intake of breath, which was followed by a long pause.
“Did you miss me?” There was no answer. “You thought I was dead, didn’t you? I get that a lot. Especially from someone who set me up. Now, where are you?”
“Uh, my house,” he said.
“Alone? No Ms. Ricasso?”
“No. Look, Craig-”
“No, you look. I don’t know what your friends there are telling you, but if you want to find out what happened to your son, you’ll meet with me. You might even save your own life.”
Again, a pause, but I could tell the phone wasn’t covered. Then I saw him, the phone to his ear, walking up to the window.
“Okay,” he said. “When?”
“This afternoon. Take the Sidewinder chairlift up and dial this number when you get off. No later than two-thirty.”
“You mean on the mountain?”
“Sure. Get out and enjoy this beautiful day.” Actually, it wasn’t looking that great. Thin yellowish clouds were moving in from the west and the air had a nasty bite. “And come alone,” I said. “Don’t tell anyone, and make sure you aren’t followed. I guaran-fucking-tee that you are on thin ice with these people.”
I hung up and skied down to the Sidewinder lift. While in the lift line, I slipped the phone into the pocket of the woman in front of me. Seven minutes later I was at the top, positioning myself where I could watch the lift and not be too obvious about it.
The weather was deteriorating rapidly. The dark gray overcast was thick and menacing, and ice pellets propelled by the steadily increasing wind began to rattle against my goggles. No one lingered after getting off the lift. The skiers quickly moved down the slope, and the snowboarders spent less time than usual collapsed in the snow like battlefield casualties.
To me it seemed like normal skiing conditions, but I supposed western skiers are spoiled. The number of people coming up the lift diminished as I waited, until there were lots of empty chairs. After twenty minutes I spotted Boyd, the only guy in this weather with no helmet and his jacket unzipped. He skied off the lift and stopped to look around. When no one approached him, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed. After a minute, he pulled it away from his ear and looked at it. Then he spoke into it again and hung up. Again, he looked around as if expecting a revelation.
I used one of my two remaining cell phones to dial his number.
“Craig?”
“No, Bode Miller. Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here. Who was that woman?”
“What woman?”
“The one who answered your phone.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Take the Ridge Runner Gondola to the top. I’ll wait for you there.”
“Alright.”
I snapped the phone shut, and watched him. He put the phone away and skated off towards the gondola station. I watched for a moment to see if he had a tail, but no one seemed to be following him. I skated into the nearly empty gondola line, right behind Boyd. A group of teenage girls skied in behind me.
“How many?” said the attendant when Boyd reached the end of the line.
“Two,” I said.
Boyd recognized my voice and looked sharply at me.
“How many?” the attendant sa
id to the girls.
“Five.”
“Okay,” he said to Boyd and me, “you two.”
We put our skis in the rack and climbed inside the gondola cabin. The door closed and we skittered forward.
“Alright Craig, what is all this cloak and dagger about?”
“You mean besides the fact you set me up to be murdered and I should break your legs and leave you in the snow to die?”
“You could try.”
“I would succeed. Those health club muscles might impress the ladies, but I’d fuck you up good and you know it.”
His face told me he did, but he struggled to be defiant.
“So? What is this about my son?”
“As you know, he wasn’t at the clinic. I believe he’s dead. I think your friends killed him.”
“You’re wrong. They gave me their word.”
“Their word?”
“Yes. He was here, yes. With his friends, yes. They killed them, and they would have killed Ken, but he escaped, like the one they shot in Vermont. They didn’t know it was Ken that night, only later, when they found the van.”
“So where is Ken?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s hiding, afraid to contact me because he suspects I’m involved.”
“He’s an amateur,” I said. “The pros are dead. I find it hard to believe he’s managed to stay alive and in hiding for two months.”
“It’s no longer your business.” He looked exhausted, played out. “I’ll pay you what I owe you. Just drop the whole thing.”
“And just go home?” He nodded. “How long you think I’d live? A day? A week?”
“Not my concern.”
“Nice guy. What about your own life? How long you figure they’re going to let you live?”
“They need me,” he said, sounding not entirely convinced.
“For what? The money laundering?”
His head jerked around so hard I thought it might snap off.
“It wasn’t hard,” I said. “Big time lawyer and finance guy, working for a company funded by drug money. How’s it work? Something to do with the charity?”
Even though his face was pinched from the cold, I could see the blood drain away. Real fear grew in his eyes. We bumped over the rollers at one of the towers. Boyd looked up, as if startled by the vibration.