Trust But Verify

by Karna Small Bodman

  “Outside would be nice if we can get one of those tables. It’s a lovely night.”

  The maître d’ showed them to a small, wrought iron table for two under an awning and handed them menus. Otto took a seat facing the wall. “Your server will be along shortly,” the man said and scurried back inside.

  Before opening her menu, Jolene looked at Otto. “I’ve told you about my future. What about yours? Are you here looking for a job?”

  “Oh no. This is just a trip,” he said, trying to sound casual.

  “You mean a vacation?”

  “Sort of.”

  “We have a lot of foreign students at Georgetown. Did you finish college in Russia? You said earlier you’re from Moscow,” Jolene said.

  “Yeah. I studied English. And I took a bunch of computer courses.”

  “So, do you work in computer programming back there?”

  “Not really. I’m kind of working for my uncles right now,” he said.

  “Oh, a family business. That’s nice. My father runs a laundry in Bangkok. It’s hard work, doesn’t pay much, and I wanted to do better. I’m hoping I can make enough to send some home to them. What is your uncles’ business?”

  He wasn’t sure how to respond. But mentioning one of their ventures probably wouldn’t be too risky. “They’re into all kinds of things. Like car dealerships.”

  A young waiter hurried through the door and approached their table. “Something to drink?”

  Jolene opened the menu and glanced at the wine list. “May I have a glass of the pinot grigio please?” she said pleasantly.

  “Sure thing. And for you?” the waiter asked.

  Otto was going to break Vadim’s no-drinking rule again. Being out with a major beauty like her required reinforcements. “How about a Heineken?”

  “No problem,” the waiter said. “Back in a minute.”

  Jolene kept looking at the menu. “I think I’ll try the crab cakes. What about you?”

  “How are the lamb chops?”

  “I’ve never had them, but I’m sure they’re good. This is a pretty popular place.” She looked up from the menu and smiled. “So, are you going to go back to Moscow and sell cars for your uncles or something?”

  He wouldn’t be selling cars. Those dealerships were probably just fronts, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to work for his uncles forever. Maksim was okay but Vadim was obnoxious. Always complaining and criticizing every little thing he did.

  Otto knew Vadim only took him on as a kind of intern because his mother wanted him to learn how to be a good businessman. But she had no idea what Vadim actually did. She couldn’t. Having Otto shadow Vadim was her way of ensuring he stayed away from gangs. If she knew some of the things Vadim had asked him to do, she’d probably say prayers for his soul or something.

  But he wasn’t an assassin. In fact, he was incredibly relieved when that fire alarm went off in Naples and everyone escaped the bombing. The whole incident helped solidify a plan that had been quietly taking shape in the back of his mind: no matter what, he was going to find a way to get out from under Vadim’s thumb.

  “Oleg?” Jolene said. “You’ve got a strange look. Did I say something wrong?”

  “No. Sorry, I was just thinking about your question.”

  “Here’s your wine. And the beer,” the waiter said, setting the glasses down. “Have you decided on dinner?” he asked.

  “I’d like to start with the spinach salad and then the crab cakes,” Jolene said.

  “Clam chowder and lamb chops please,” Otto said.

  “Sounds good,” the waiter said and walked back through the door.

  Jolene took a sip of her wine. “If you don’t want to sell cars, why don’t you stay here and get a job? As I said, companies all seem to want people who are good with computers. You could probably get something pretty quickly.”

  Stay? The thought had never entered his mind. But as he stared at Jolene, he wondered about it.

  He was here on a mission, one he was being paid to carry out. In fact, when he left San Francisco, Maksim had hinted Otto might get a bonus when he finished this assignment. The trouble was he wanted the bonus, but he didn’t want to finish the assignment. And after the screw-up in Naples, he wondered if he could ever escape the FBI. They were still circulating his portrait. Someone somewhere was bound to recognize him eventually.

  He took a deep breath. “I doubt I could stay here,” he said, taking a swig of beer. Then he added, “Until I figure it out though, it would be really nice to see you again.” He sat back. Now he had a lot more figuring out to do.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  FRIDAY EVENING;

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  SAMANTHA SLIPPED ON STRAPPY, VINTAGE, juniper green heels and smoothed her slim, silk, black dress one last time. She brushed her hair, twisted it behind her ears, and held it in place with two pearl clips. Pearl stud earrings completed the look.

  Turning away from the mirror, she left the ladies room and retrieved her evening bag from the desk in her office. Samantha walked down a flight of stairs and hurried through the West Wing. She stepped out the door to the colonnade next to the rose garden and hurried along to the entrance of the Mansion, as everyone called it. There, she climbed back up a flight of stairs that lead to the Cross Hall where guests were gathering to honor the new Prime Minister of Great Britain.

  Even though she was running on very little sleep, Samantha was determined to stay awake and attempt to be charming tonight. After all, Brett had stayed up all night so that she would be safe to live and work as normally as possible.

  At 6:00 a.m., he had introduced her to two of her new FBI bodyguards. They drove her to the southwest gate of the White House at 6:45 a.m. and only left when they saw her walk safely inside. She had thought that would be the end of the day’s excitement. But Homer surprised her with another meeting to analyze a new suspicious set of accounts in Siberia.

  Homer explained there were concerns that the money in the accounts was payment for more illicit arms sales. They had already tied the accounts to some phony end-user certificates. Samantha suggested the weapons were purchased on the cheap from former Soviet stockpiles and sent out by freelance merchants. She knew that whenever arms were shipped to another country, an official had to sign an end-user certificate, or EUC, to confirm the weapons would only be used by a government, not resold to militant groups. Homer backed her theory, and the Treasury was already trying to match the approximate value of the sales to the new Russian accounts.

  After that meeting, Samantha had rushed to the bathroom to get ready for the reception. With the hours she worked, going home to get ready would have been impossible. But she was not the only member of the White House senior staff who had dragged a hanger bag and formal shoes to the office that morning. A cardinal rule for these dinners was never to arrive late. In fact, you had to arrive long before the honored guests.

  Senior staff members were constantly reminded that there were only four possible reasons to refuse a president’s invitation to a state dinner: a death in the family, a serious illness, a wedding, or an official mission that required working overseas. She had heard about senators who had literally checked out of hospitals to attend these evening affairs.

  Stepping into the Cross Hall, Samantha noticed the usual people were already there, including the White House Chief of Staff and National Security Advisor as well as the Secretaries of the Treasury, State, and Defense. Seeing them made her feel rather special for being included tonight. Though, she was pretty sure she had only been invited because the security issues she was dealing with dovetailed with the ones England was facing, and a friendly exchange was in order.

  She meandered into the Red Room where Gilbert Stuarts’s famous portrait of Dolley Madison had been prominently displayed for generations. She wondered if the Prime Minister would remember that Dolley was the one who saved a picture of George Washington when British troops looted the White House in 1812. Maybe he wouldn’t notice.<
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  She took a glass of wine from a passing server and moved into the oval Blue Room. She had always liked its eighteen-foot ceilings and the official White House Christmas tree it showcased every year. When the president and first lady weren’t posing in it with Christmas party guests, the room was used for special occasions. The most important one had been the wedding of Grover Cleveland, the only sitting president to get married in the White House.

  As she stood against the wall, she nodded to the chairman of the House Intelligence Committee who was deep in conversation with the majority whip. She hoped they were talking about a controversial bill that would increase instead of cut the CIA’s budget. Suddenly, she saw the Treasury Secretary walking toward her.

  “Good evening, Samantha. Glad you’ll be joining us in Jackson next week,” he said.

  A smile automatically spread across her face. “Thank you, Mr. Secretary. I just hope I can help encourage a bit more allied support for your . . . and our . . . initiatives.”

  “Yes. We’re all in this together. If you’ll excuse me, I’d better go talk to the British Chancellor of the Exchequer.”

  With a pleasant nod, he moved away. Could she help with anything in Jackson if she was still afraid to show up? She tried to push that thought aside as she moved past a senator and entered the Green Room.

  With Duncan Phyfe furniture dating back to 1810 and parlor walls covered in green silk, she glanced down and saw that her shoes would blend right in. She was constantly amazed that these antiques had held up for so many years and through so many official functions. Of course, hardly anyone ever sat down on those pieces. It was too tempting to work the rooms, see and be seen, and occasionally cut a deal with an opposing member of Congress, even though only top leadership ever seemed to make the guest list.

  She heard a murmur and realized it was time to return to the Cross Hall and watch the President, First Lady, and their guests of honor come down the stairs from the residence. Once there, Samantha stepped aside to let others get a better view. The press pool snapped the obligatory photos, and then the Press Secretary ushered the media back to the Press Room to file their stories. When they finished, the President led the way to the State Dining Room.

  Samantha followed the crowd and noticed the Social Secretary standing at the door, directing people to their tables. Samantha saw her name written in perfect calligraphy on a place card and was pleased that she had been seated next to her British counterpart. He was one of the Prime Minister’s chief terrorism specialists. Samantha had been on a conference call with him a week ago, but this was her first chance to meet him in person.

  “Good evening, Ms. Reid.”

  She turned around and met a large set of light brown eyes. The man they belonged to had dark auburn hair and a sharp smile.

  “I’m delighted to finally put a face to your voice,” he continued. “It’s very nice to talk to you on such a pleasant occasion rather than on those frantic calls where we share information about another suspected threat.” He pulled out her chair. She smiled and sat down.

  “Yes, last time we talked, it was another suicide bomber at Heathrow targeting that plane to New York. I was amazed by how quickly your people neutralized the situation,” Samantha said.

  “We got lucky. And with the new protocols, we hope to maintain our record.”

  “New protocols?” she asked.

  “We just concluded a meeting with your National Security Advisor and Director of National Intelligence. We all agreed on a faster and more thorough exchange of information between our MI5 and Interpol and your CIA and FBI. Now that there is so much information flooding into our agencies, it can be difficult to analyze and know what to pass along.”

  “Agreed,” Samantha said. She took a sip of wine. “Thank you so much for your cooperation not only on the immediate threats but also on tracking bank accounts we think are tied to bad transactions.”

  “Yes, I know that’s one of your key areas,” he said. “I saw a dispatch that said you will be one of the speakers at the Federal Reserve Conference in Jackson Hole. Our Finance Minister will be there. I hope you will have an opportunity to meet him.”

  “I look forward to it.” Samantha immediately felt guilty about lying to her dinner partner. She snatched up her menu card and tried to switch the subject. “I heard they were going to repeat the dinner they served in the ‘70s during our bicentennial when Queen Elizabeth was here.”

  The menu included New England langouste en bellevue, a saddle of veal with rice croquettes, a garden salad with trappist cheese, peach ice cream bombe, and finally petits fours. She couldn’t eat all that, but she’d definitely taste it. Samantha exchanged her reception wine for a glass of Sterling Chenin Blanc that her waiter had just poured and settled in for a long evening. After the meal and all the toasts, they would be herded into the East Room for entertainment, music, and dancing.

  What was it she had read about that dinner for Queen Elizabeth so long ago? Something about dancing? Suddenly it came back to her. President Ford had leaned over and respectfully asked the Queen for her presence on the dance floor. So, she got up, he took her hand, and just as she stepped onto the floor, the Marine Band started playing “The Lady Is a Tramp.” Samantha smiled to herself, remembering the musical gaffe. She hoped she would have a few more opportunities to enjoy the evening. Though, with her recent luck, she doubted she would.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  LATE FRIDAY NIGHT;

  SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

  VADIM WENT OVER THE NUMBERS again.

  He had about fifty million dollars left after the Cyprus confiscations and sanctions enforcement. It included payments he had received for the shipments to FARC and the Lashkar group. With the help of Alexander Tepanov, he had spread his wealth around until no one was the wiser. Ten million disappeared into a series of accounts in Malta, and the other forty million trickled through a network of accounts in the Siberian branch of a Moscow bank. Now he wanted to arrange contracts for the money so that he could cash in after the conference.

  He needed the Malta balance to pay Stas and Lubov their five million as soon as they returned. Vadim had sent the conference agenda to them that morning and was expecting an overview of their plans to arrive any minute. He didn’t mind waiting a little longer for it now that it would include Samantha Reid.

  It was a stroke of pure luck that her name was listed as one of the conference speakers on the agenda. The conference was next week, and no one believed Otto would handle her before then. So, without telling Otto, Vadim decided their strategy for the conference would include her.

  A chime sounded, and Vadim saw a text from Lubov light up his cell. “Figured it out. Details on return,” it said.

  That was fast, Vadim thought.

  He narrowed his eyes and skimmed through his calculations one final time. Then he picked up his cell and called Tepanov’s personal number. When the call was answered, Vadim said, “Good morning. I trust you had a pleasant evening last night.”

  “Very pleasant, especially after I accepted the Federal Reserve’s conference invitation. I am already looking forward to seeing you and Maksim next week in Wyoming. My secretary is coordinating my trip with our embassy in Washington since one of our ministers is attending as well. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “Well, I have been analyzing the markets, and I suspect that the American economy will take a dive soon. We should get in front of that,” Vadim said.

  There was a long pause on the line. “There have certainly been ups and downs recently, but I’ve seen no indication that another major move will occur,” Tepanov said.

  Vadim ploughed ahead. “In any event, here’s what I want you and your associates to do. Take the money I have in your Siberian branch and buy a series of puts on the major stock indices. Spread them around so they will attract the least attention.”

  “Wait a minute, Vadim. Are you trying to short the market?”

  “Relax,” Vadim said. “I’ve checke
d the calculations. So, to begin, buy about thirty million worth of puts on the Dow. Then another thirty million puts on the S&P 500, less appropriate commissions, of course.”

  “Wait. Wait,” Tepanov said, sounding exasperated. “Last I checked you had about forty million in those accounts. How can I buy sixty million?”

  “I want to go on margin. I know I can margin up to fifty percent of the cash value of my total account. So, let’s do that.”

  Tepanov sighed. “Vadim, you say you have made all the calculations. I do a lot of calculations too, and I hope you realize that if the market is higher before these contracts expire, you would lose everything. And I mean all of it. There would be margin calls, and you’d be in debt. Your options would expire worthless.”

  Vadim gave a reassuring laugh. “Don’t worry. I’ve figured it all out. We just need these orders executed carefully.”

  The banker was silent for several minutes. “And if I can do this without anyone noticing, we will meet in Jackson to finalize our relationship?”

  “Precisely,” Vadim said.

  “All right. I still don’t understand your reasoning, but you sound very determined about this. And, after all, it is your money. I’ll get the trades executed for you.”

  “Thank you. Don’t email the confirmations. Send them by DHL to my address in the states, like you did with the paperwork for those new accounts. I always prefer old fashioned paper and the delivery systems for financial transactions. You never know who’s monitoring what these days.”

  “It’s true,” the banker said. “Well, that’s enough business for one day. I look forward to carrying out the trades and seeing you in Jackson.”

  “Thanks again.” Vadim said. “Keep in touch.”

  He clicked off the call, leaned back, and turned in his chair to face Maksim. “I’m shorting the market just like I said I would. When Lubov and Stas get back, I have a feeling they’ll do the same thing.”

  Maksim handed Vadim a glass of vodka, raised his own glass in a toast, and then leaned against a wall. “I thought you said we should always keep twenty percent of any asset for schmuck insurance in case things don’t pan out. Shouldn’t we keep that reserve?”