Trust But Verify

by Karna Small Bodman

“Don’t shoot,” Maksim shouted, peering out from behind the door. “I’m not armed.”

  Another agent bolted to Vadim’s gun and kicked it out of reach. “Where are the others?” he demanded. Maksim glanced nervously to the left. The agent called out, “Come out. Now!”

  Stas inched his way out of the kitchen and raised his hands. An agent rushed up, turned him around, and quickly snapped a pair of handcuffs on him. Another was already cuffing Vadim and Maksim.

  “One more,” the lead agent said. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” Stas said.

  The lead moved cautiously toward the kitchen. When he stepped inside it, he saw the other door. He yanked it open, revealing stairs leading down. “Trying to get away,” he said.

  “He won’t get far. Building’s surrounded,” one of his colleagues replied.

  “You shot me!” Vadim shouted. “I need a doctor.”

  “You’ll get one soon enough,” an agent said, peering at the leg wound. “Unfortunately, you’ll live.”

  “Why are you here?” Vadim said, raising his voice. “I own this apartment. I am a citizen of Russia. I have a valid visa. We all do. You have no right—”

  “We have every right,” the lead agent said. “You are all under arrest for conspiracy, the attempted murder of over one hundred people in Jackson, Wyoming, resisting arrest, firing on an agent—probably with an unregistered weapon. And that’s just the start of it. Read them their rights,” he said to an agent standing next to him, who performed the perfunctory notice.

  “Search the place,” the special agent in charge said over his shoulder. “Take computers, cell phones, and everything else you find while we escort them outside. Look for bills, accounts, travel documents. You know what to bag.”

  Several agents fanned out through the apartment. One went into the bedroom, another walked to the kitchen, and a third started to search Vadim’s desk in the corner of the living room. He set the computer aside and rifled through several drawers. In the bottom of one, he found an envelope delivered from Moscow by DHL. He opened it and pulled out several pages covered with numbers.

  “This could be important. It’s all in Russian, but looks like it might be a list of stock trades. I recognize a couple of the symbols. We’ll bag everything and get it to D.C. for analysis.”

  “Oh shit,” Vadim mumbled. “You’ve got nothing on us,” he barked, hobbling forward. “Show me a warrant.”

  “Got it right here,” the special agent said, pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket. “You can read it in the van on your way to jail.”

  FIFTY-THREE

  MONDAY AFTERNOON;

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  “WE GOT THEM!” TREVOR ANNOUNCED, hurrying into Brett’s office. Brett was sitting at his desk, and Dom was leaning against the wall.

  “Where? When?” Dom shouted.

  “Right where the kid said they’d be?” Brett asked.

  “Exactly. Just happened. Perfect take down,” Trevor said with a note of triumph. “One of the uncles, Vadim Baltiev, managed to get off a shot. Our guys weren’t hurt, but they returned fire and shot him in the leg. Nothing serious. He’ll live. One of the other Russians tried to escape down a back stairway. Nailed him too. Now they’re all in jail in San Francisco, waiting for us to finish the paperwork to bring them back here.”

  “That’s incredible,” Dom said. “I was just getting briefed on everything else the kid said this morning.”

  “I’ll leave you to go over that,” Trevor said. “Just wanted you to know about San Francisco. The Director is going to announce the arrest pretty soon. Watch Fox News.”

  “Thanks,” Brett said, leaning over and flicking on the TV remote. He put it on mute.

  “Oh, before you leave,” Dom said to Trevor, “we just got an analysis of the C-4 used in Jackson. The lab also worked on the remnants of the material they found in Naples. Guess what? Same source,” Dom said handing over a report.

  “Czech Plastique,” Trevor read. “Pretty common.”

  “It was probably shielded and sent through the mail,” Dom said. “The Denver agents found an employee in a Wilson, Wyoming, post office who remembered one of the suspects in the photos. The one named Lubov. Said he rented a box and got several packages. He remembered because the guy sounded foreign and was rather rude.”

  “That all ties in. Case is building pretty fast,” Brett said.

  “Keep at it,” Trevor said before turning and walking back down the hall.

  “So, back to this morning’s meeting,” Brett said. “The kid sang like a choir boy after we agreed to immunity and protection. He said that if he testified, the perpetrators would know it was him, and he would never be able to go back to Russia. The mafia would kill him for being a snitch.

  “His attorney reminded us that he’s concerned about his mother,” Brett continued. “She lives on a little farm outside of Moscow. Our embassy is trying to see if we can move her over here. After we finished discussing his mother, we pressed him on Samantha Reid, and he broke down. Said he was only following his uncle’s orders and that he didn’t really want to hurt her, just keep her scared and sidelined for a while.”

  “Wish I had been in that meeting,” Dom said. “What else?”

  “A treasure trove,” Brett said. “Turns out his uncles had all sorts of clients for their weapons’ deals. One is Lashkar-e-Taiba, the militant outfit operating in Kashmir that likes to attack cities in India. Otto also remembered the name FARC in South America. Samantha was excited to hear about that connection. It all ties into a major investigation at the White House, Treasury, and DOD.”

  “A real home run,” Dom said.

  “And there’s a lot more. Otto said that Vadim and Maksim talked about how much money they lost in Cyprus and Malta, and even more because of the sanctions. Then when Lubov and Stas—that’s what he called them—were staying at his uncles’ penthouse, he overheard them talk about a plan to crash the stock market and make back their money while he was playing video games in his room.”

  “All of that supports Samantha’s theory,” Dom said. “So far, it looks like we’ve got motive, means, and opportunity.”

  “Yep.”

  “So, what’s next?”

  “The analysts will go through everything they found in that penthouse—computers, cell phones, bank records. I didn’t get a full read-out of what they hauled out of there, but I’m sure we’ll get a report soon,” Brett said. “Oh, and Samantha told me she contacted that Russian banker, Alexander Tepanov. You’ll never guess what she pried out of him,” Brett said.

  “What?”

  “He agreed to give a deposition. Turns out Vadim, one of Otto’s uncles, actually asked him to execute a lot of contracts to short the market. Tepanov warned Vadim that if the market went up, he could lose everything. But Vadim seemed sure of himself, so the order went through. Tepanov also placed a few shorts for the two mafia members.”

  “Why did he deny knowing them before?” Dom asked.

  “Didn’t want to get involved. And he told Samantha that he was still shaken by the news of the explosives when he said that. He also admitted that after the shock wore off, it became very clear to him that shorting the market through a massacre had always been Vadim’s plan. And that’s exactly what Samantha predicted.”

  “Pretty amazing woman to figure all that out,” Dom said.

  “Amazing for sure,” Brett said with a smile. “We’ve been feeding all of this up through channels to the Director as we get it.” He glanced at his computer when he heard the ding that announced a new email. “Oh boy.”

  “What is it?” Dom asked, leaning over.

  “It’s from Eleanor, the real estate agent.”

  “After your bod again, huh?”

  Brett shrugged, read the short note, and started to chuckle. “Says she’s sorry she has to cancel her previous invitation to the Kennedy Center. While I was out of town, she met a lobbyist who is taking up all her free time.
She hopes I understand, and she’ll be glad to continue to work with the bureau to protect national security.”

  Dom burst out laughing. Then he pointed to the TV as the FBI director stepped up to a microphone. “Turn it up.” Brett hit the button as dozens of reporters and cameramen jockeyed for a position in front or to the side of the Director as he read a prepared statement.

  “Good afternoon. I want to announce that FBI Special Agents have just arrested four suspects in the attempted bombing of the Federal Reserve Conference in Jackson, Wyoming. They are Russian citizens who were arrested at a penthouse apartment in San Francisco owned by two of the suspects. They are brothers, Vadim and Maksim Baltiev. The other two suspects are known members of a Russian mafia organization.

  “While there is an ongoing investigation, it does not appear that the incident had any connection to terrorist organizations, such as Al Qaeda, ISIS, or other militant groups. The suspects’ motives appear to be related to the financial markets.

  “I want to assure the American people that every delegate who attended the conference is safe and that the markets are operating as smoothly as usual. I would also like to thank the FBI agents who worked tirelessly to discover and prevent this unthinkable crime. It is a tribute to their dedication and constant vigilance to keep our country safe.

  “Finally, I cannot take any questions at this point, but as we continue our investigation and uncover more facts, we will keep the American people informed.” He folded his notes and prepared to leave the podium, ignoring the shouted questions.

  “How did you know about the threat?”

  “Were you monitoring cell phones and emails?”

  “Why were the suspects in San Francisco?”

  “How did you find them?”

  The Director waved his hand and quickly left the room.

  “What do you think?” Brett asked, clicking off the TV.

  “He was talking about you, you know,” Dom said.

  “Not just me. You were there. We never would have found those suspects without your photos.”

  “I guess. Can’t wait to question them. Once we get them here and separate them, it’ll be interesting to see if one of them rats on the others.”

  “They all seem pretty tight-lipped to me, but we’ll see,” Brett said.

  Dom nodded, took his coffee mug, and headed back to his cubicle.

  Brett spent the next couple of hours reviewing data on the four suspects and exchanging ideas with other agents about the Russians’ connections to the arms trade. They analyzed visas, fake passports, and travel itineraries while they waited for the delivery of the computers, cell phones, and other items collected in San Francisco.

  He checked his watch and saw that it was almost time for the closing bell on Wall Street. He turned on CNBC where an anchor was finishing her wrap-up of the trading day. “As you can see, the S&P, NASDAQ, and Dow Jones industrial average have all posted major gains with the Dow up just over three hundred points.”

  Brett leaned back in his chair and grinned.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  WEDNESDAY EARLY EVENING;

  GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  “FINALLY, WE GET TO DO something outside together. Something without bodyguards,” Angela said, leaning back to stretch her calves. She looked across the street and saw the sign for Montrose Park. “After hearing you and Brett talk about how beautiful the park is, I’m looking forward to seeing it myself.”

  Samantha tossed her friend a water bottle, grabbed one of her own, and started to jog across the street. “You’ll like it. There’s a nice path that goes for miles.”

  They entered the park, and Samantha continued. “Speaking of Brett, he has been so great lately. He’s been keeping me up to speed on how the case is building. And I’m trying to keep up with Treasury and Defense on the efforts to close a lot of illicit accounts and stop a ton of arms shipments. We’re all working late these days.”

  “The press has been all over the court case,” Angela said. “The reporters have been going nuts on the North Lawn.”

  “Yes, it’s all happening pretty fast compared to other cases. The grand jury has already written the indictments. I’m glad I don’t have to help prepare for the trial.”

  They started to jog down the path at a leisurely, warm-up pace, passing picnic tables and monkey bars as they continued into the woods.

  “Every time we talk about the Jackson case, I get goosebumps big enough to hang a hat on,” Angela said with a nervous laugh.

  “Me too. I was nervous and in bad shape during the entire trip. But I don’t really want to relive it right now.”

  “Oh, sorry. It’s just all so wild. But we won’t talk about it anymore,” Angela said, stopping to take a sip of water. They both paused to catch their breath.

  “So, what’s new in your shop? Every time I hear about the crazy petitions you have to handle, it makes me laugh. Lately, it’s been nice to do that once in a while,” Samantha said.

  “Well, if a laugh is what you wanted . . . on my way over here, I drove past a building with a newly installed drug rehab center. There was a sign out front that said ‘Keep Off The Grass.’ ”

  “Love it,” Samantha said, grinning at her friend.

  “As for my shop, let’s see. Oh, we keep getting requests for White House meetings from a tax simplification group. They want members of Congress and the administration to sign a pledge to fill out their own tax returns.”

  “Fat chance. Congress would never take that kind of pledge,” Samantha said.

  “Why shouldn’t those members follow all the laws and rules they make the rest of us follow?” Angela countered. “Anyway, when I tried to get the support of the political affairs shop, they laughed me out of the room. Should have just flown a kite before they told me to,” Angela said.

  They started to run again. After another twenty minutes, Samantha said, “Wait until you see where I like to cool down. Follow me.”

  They jogged back to the entrance of the park, reached the sidewalk, and turned left toward the cemetery’s iron gates. When Samantha got inside, she looked to her right, and there he was.

  “Wilkinson,” she shouted and ran over to him. She sat down on the bench next to him and threw her arms around his neck. “How are you? I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  “I’m just fine, Samantha. It’s wonderful to see you again. When I read about your ordeal out west, I couldn’t believe my eyes.”

  She patted his arm, leaned down, and petted Roosevelt. “Well, I’m fine now too. I want to introduce you to my best friend, Angela Marconi. We work together in the White House.”

  Angela took the gentleman’s hand in hers and gave him a big smile. “Great to meet you, sir. You remind me of an old quote I heard once. It was from President Reagan. He said, ‘There are three stages of life: youth, middle age, and you look terrific.’ ”

  Wilkinson broke into a hearty laugh and gestured for Angela to sit down. “My favorite quote from him used to be on a little plaque he kept on his desk. It said, ‘There is no limit to what a man can do or where he can go if he doesn’t mind who gets the credit.’ And that reminds me, who found all those explosives on that mountain? The FBI never mentioned any names in the news reports I’ve seen.”

  “They don’t like to name their agents,” Samantha said. “You never know who might want to retaliate for something they do. But I know I can tell you.”

  Wilkinson leaned forward as she said, “Remember Brett?”

  “Of course. He’s with the FBI? Was he out there in Jackson?”

  “Yes.” Samantha’s face suddenly lit up. “He found all the caches of C-4 by the tower and around the restaurant where we were having lunch. It was incredible.” She quickly stretched her left calf and then continued. “So, now you know. I’m sure you can keep it to yourself.”

  “Absolutely,” Wilkinson said. “I remember another quote from long ago, before you ladies were born. I believe it was Harry Truman who said,
‘Never miss a good chance to shut up’.”

  Both women laughed. Samantha took a drink of water and checked her watch. “We should get going. I have some errands. But now that you’re out and about, maybe we could have dinner sometime?”

  “I’d be delighted,” he said. “Whenever you have a free evening, you just let me know. It would be an honor to squire a young lady like you around town,” he said with a mischievous smile. “You girls take care of yourselves.”

  “Will do,” Samantha said. As they headed back to her car, she turned to Angela. “Speaking of dinner dates, I’d like to set one up for you.”

  “What do you mean?” Angela asked.

  “Remember the FBI agent you met at Chadwick’s? The one who walked you to your car?”

  “Sure. He was with Brett. He’s the one you said took great photos of the suspects.”

  “Yes, he’s very good at what he does. He’s also a really great guy. And his last name is Turiano. I’ll bet your mother would approve,” Samantha said with a grin.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  THURSDAY MORNING;

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  “WHAT’S THIS ABOUT?” BRETT ASKED, straightening his navy tie.

  “I have no clue,” Samantha replied. “I usually don’t get summoned to the Oval Office unless there’s something really big going on in my shop. It does seem strange, especially since you were asked to come too.”

  “The President will see you now,” the ever-efficient secretary said. “Just follow the military aide please.”

  The young uniformed officer walked out of his glass-walled cubicle, opened a door, and led them into the well-lit room. Sunlight streamed through a trio of windows behind the traditional Rutherford B. Hayes desk, and photos of the President’s family adorned a table just behind it. Two small bronze Remington statues stood on a side chest. The president was talking with the Chief of Staff, the NSC Advisor, and the Director of the FBI. A portrait of Abraham Lincoln observed the small gathering from the wall.

  “What are our bosses doing here?” Brett whispered.