by Rick Pullen
He needed to hurry. For what, exactly, he wasn’t sure. But he felt he was running out of options.
In moments, he sat unnoticed and uncomfortable under the still-dripping canopy shielding the rooftop terrace, posted in a chair far across the expanse of damp, empty tables and chairs from the Whale and the Republican senator from New Jersey. He smiled to himself. Thanks to the storm, the empty rooftop lounge offered not only an unfettered view of the presidential candidate, but a stillness that enabled him to make out bits of their conversation—even from across the steamy patio.
Thank god for Mother Nature, he thought. She’s a Republican.
Bayard nursed a glass of clear liquid on the rocks. The Whale appeared to have arranged for another tumbler of brown liquor. Fahy suspected single malt Scotch, the preferred drink of the power elite. Washington was so cliché—a city of red-tie conformity and uniform egocentric comportment. The drinks rested on the high-top table between them, mere props as both men leaned in, engulfed in conversation.
Fahy partially hid behind his wilting copy of the day’s Post-Examiner as the waiter brought him iced tea. Spy craft, he had to admit, was not his forte. He strained to hear and bit his lip, hoping for something—a clue of some sort. He wiped his brow. His suit was starting to stick to him. Was he just nervous or was it the loitering humidity?
He looked up again over his newspaper. Would they recognize him? But the two men—busy chatting and laughing—paid him no attention.
The Whale made a grand gesture, extending his arm out over the balcony’s iron railing toward the White House, whose roof and top floor loomed a block away. Fahy felt he could reach out and touch the executive mansion from his chair. He imagined Bayard did too. But this had to be as close as the senator got.
Bayard looked toward the White House and smiled.
It might as well have a “For Sale” sign planted on the South Lawn, Fahy thought.
Bayard had slithered through his fingers again and again, and now the Republican convention was just days away. If Bayard got the nomination, he would be placing a substantial down payment on the First Family residence. If elected and subsequently exposed, Fahy was sure Bayard would destroy the Republican Party. Fahy could kick himself. Had he done a better job, the New Jersey senator would never have gotten this close.
Bayard must have intentionally chosen his seat next to the rooftop railing. Literally, nothing stood between him and the White House.
“Shoot. You’re kidding. You’re killing me, man,” the Whale cackled. The words echoed throughout the empty lounge.
Fahy smiled and immediately looked at his watch, marking the time. Maybe this time, he thought. Just maybe.
Bayard leaned on the railing and spied the White House as if affirming his future ownership.
Perfect, thought Fahy. He had no idea the White House was spying right back.
4
The bulky green backpacks appeared to be stacked randomly about five feet high on a bed of silver needles against a Sitka tree that towered over a stand of firs. The packs were visible from the open field.
Stupid kids, thought Gardener. They were supposed to camouflage the damn things.
In the darkness of night, they probably hadn’t realized how exposed the bags were to the open field. That, or they were just too eager to get the hell out of there before sunrise. He thought about it. Probably the latter.
Through his powerful riflescope, he eyed the bags and for the third time this morning swept his viewfinder across the field. Always checking. He could never be too careful.
Then he caught a blur of movement. He stopped and slowly backtracked with his scope. There. There it was—a Mountie walking slowly along the tree line through the tall grass and wildflowers, staring into the forest, no more than twenty yards from the stack. Gardener studied him closely. It appeared he had not yet spotted the backpacks. Maybe there was still a chance.
And then he noticed it. Damn. The lawman had a dog. That was it. He was done. The canine would surely pick up a scent. He immediately thought about his own position. If the wind changed, the animal would quickly find him as well. Damn it. The entire mission was now at risk. He was looking at millions sitting under that tree, and he needed it badly. The boss did not take failure lightly.
Had the Mounties already discovered their decoy deliveries, as intended? Those were supposed to divert the constables miles away over into the next district, far from this, the real haul. The law should be forty miles from here in the next valley. Yet here he was. How the hell did he get here? Was he tipped off or did he just stumble into it? Did it really matter at this point?
Gardener was crouched in the tall grass, watching the money. He had been as still as the spruces and pines for the past half hour, something he had learned years ago when he was a guerrilla in South America. Now he was the next link in the money’s circuitous journey back home.
He looked for the Mountie’s partner. He thought they always traveled in pairs. From his crouch position, Gardener slowly studied the field through his scope with his good eye. He was in his realm sitting alone in a field of tall grass, buttercups, fireweed, and elephant head. His real name wasn’t even Gardener, but everyone called him that because of his love of beautiful flowers and the joy he found in running his hands through thick, rich soil. Even in the trade, everyone knew how he could bring new life to abused plants. So it was convenient to go by Gardener. It was better not to use his given name.
He felt the warmth of the early morning sun at his back. He turned, forgetting how low the sun was in the sky. It blinded his view as he scanned for additional lawmen. He looked away and held his breath. He closed his eyes and listened for anything beyond the sunlight. Only the nervous pulsing of blood through his veins interrupted. He picked up nothing but the irritating chirping of crickets. He hated crickets.
Then from his flank he heard the distinct calls of geese, grouse, and maybe a magpie or two. He turned back around. The only man-made sounds were right in front of him, about fifty yards away. In the morning stillness, he could easily pick up the steady crunch of dead needles and the snapping of twigs as the Mountie trudged after his dog along the edge of the trees, pushing dead branches and brush aside as he deliberately edged forward.
Gardener scanned the valley back and forth with his scope. Still nothing. Then there was more movement. The dog had found the money. It was barking and wagging its tail with urgency.
The Mountie turned toward him and quickly surveyed the field. Gardener paused for just a millisecond, then quickly ducked, losing his balance and slamming his left elbow on the ground. Had he been seen?
Then he heard a sound he did not recognize and slowly raised his head. The Mounty was tearing through the bags. Gardener recognized zippers grinding open, the ripping of paper, and the thud of the heavy packs being tossed to the barren forest floor. And the dog. He could hear the dog still whimpering with excitement.
The Mountie must be new, thought Gardener. Probably his first major haul. No fears of a booby trap or nothing. Son of a bitch, he wouldn’t know a booby trap if it smacked him right upside the head. Gardener smiled at the thought and stifled a laugh. Must figure he’s safe by now.
Gardener did one more quick sweep of the valley. Still nothing. Then he returned to watch patiently through his scope as the constable stopped, turned, and stepped away from the bags of cash and looked toward the field again.
He kept his head just below the top of the wildflowers and didn’t move. Through the scope, the Mountie appeared to be only a few feet away. His face was reddened, partially covered in acne. He was a baby-faced kid, thought Gardener. Not even stubble on his chin. Hell, he had a nephew his age.
They were face to face. It was like the Mountie was staring right at him. Almost as if he could see him crouched in the grass. Creepy, he thought. What was the minimum age for joining the Mounties anyway?
Then there was a sudden look of recognition on the Mountie’s face. Gardener had been made. Th
e Mountie quickly grabbed for his belt. It was a radio. He started lifting it to his ear. Gardener squeezed the trigger, and a second later, the Mountie’s head exploded into a red spray of blood and tissue fanning out over the quiet field of fireweed, glorious harebells, and tall grasses.
The pop of the rifle had broken the morning calm. Then silence echoed again. Gardener heard the rustle of God’s beautiful bounty waving ever so slightly in the light breeze across the valley floor. There was not even a whimper from the dog.
Yep, thought Gardener, wouldn’t know a booby trap if it smacked him right upside the head.
WHEELS UP FOR THE PRIVATE Gulfstream G450 jet at precisely 4:30 p.m. The pilot had filed his flight plan for yet another trip for an affluent businessman and his family headed to Mexico on vacation. In a week, the plane would return to Canada with two trunks of fashion samples for the mother’s small family boutique.
Last month, two Canadian businessmen longed for a week of fishing on Ascension Bay on the Yucatan Peninsula. A week later, they returned with coolers full of bonefish, tarpon, and snook. Next month, it would be a rock musician finishing up a five-concert tour in Canada and heading home to Mexico City.
There were no plans to return to Canada after that. Planning too far in advance was risky.
The small private airstrip, a hundred miles from Vancouver, British Columbia, was strategically located for its runs to Mexico and Central America. The Gulfstream did not have to refuel in the United States, which allowed it to veer out over the Pacific Ocean and avoid US airspace. That was deliberate, because the “Cash Cow,” as its owners dubbed it, was crammed with seventeen suitcases stuffed with American one hundred dollar bills.
The most dangerous part of the trip was over—escaping the United States into Canada. Cash was bulky and difficult to hide from authorities, but most of the border stood unprotected and easily passable, unlike Mexico, which was monitored constantly. The Gulfstream own-ers—a shell corporation out of Venezuela—preferred human mules with backpacks to make the crossing.
Now with their hoard secure onboard, the pilot pushed forward on the stick, and the plane leveled out. On the horizon, he saw the green Pacific Ocean melding into the blue sky. It was difficult to tell where they met. He watched the approaching coastline and the whitecaps and fishing boats offshore. The vessels bobbed like tiny toys in a bathtub.
In a little over seven hours, the bank manager at a friendly Mexican bank would open his back door in the middle of the night for his special client and welcome him in. Welcome indeed. The bank charged exorbitant fees to deposit foreign cash in exchange for asking no questions about its origin.
Once in the banking system, the money flowed as easily as water, beginning a long circuitous journey through several South American financial institutions. It changed form—from bulky paper bills requiring human mules or aircraft to transport them, to computer digits carried on the backs of electrons passing at the speed of light. The funds moved with a few computer keystrokes from latitude to latitude, thousands of miles in seconds, making it impossible for authorities to trace. Only a few knew its true destination.
On several occasions, the pilot overheard the owners call the Cash Cow’s flight “the circle of life” because the money, they said, would someday circle right back to where it had come from. They were never more specific, and he wasn’t about to ask any questions. Like everyone else in the organization, he was well paid to keep his mouth shut and his eyes averted. He knew what would happen if he didn’t.
5
A few hours after returning from the W Hotel, Fahy uploaded the audio file he’d requested from Homeland Security. He double-checked to ensure it was set at the precise time noted on his watch. He immediately recognized the voices of Senator David Bayard and the Whale, Bayard’s Chief of Staff Doug Jones, as they percolated up, electronically separated from the din of background noise that always surrounded the White House.
The audio came from speakers wired to Fahy’s office computer, the sound as unmistakable and precise as if the two men sat next to him. He knew he shouldn’t be in awe of the quality of the White House surveillance operation, or how easy it was to pull up electronic files from Homeland Security, and yet he couldn’t help himself.
Since 9/11, everything had changed. Washington was a city under electronic siege. Audio and video monitors loomed everywhere. Bomb-sniffing equipment hid at all major entrances to the city. A truck carrying a large explosive couldn’t get within three thousand feet of the White House or the Capitol without being detected. Hell, Fahy knew he couldn’t walk into a doughnut shop on Fourteenth Street for a cup of his favorite Texas-style coffee without being recorded by at least three different cameras.
Washington had copied London, the archetype of surveillance, and then raised the bar. If not entirely original, then it was at least a sign of America’s consistent need to flex its superiority. The thought made Fahy grin.
He adjusted the volume on his computer.
“Shoot. You’re kidding. You’re killing me, man.” The boisterous recorded voice of Jones made Fahy jump as it burst from his computer speakers.
“That was subtle,” said Fahy, hitting the “Pause” button. He looked across his desk at FBI Special Agent Patrick McCauley, who tilted his head in a knowing fashion. Fahy forced a nervous smile. “This better be good. I’ve been waiting for a long time for a break in this case.” He busied himself adjusting the speaker volume.
McCauley had called in the morning, notifying Fahy of Bayard’s meeting at the W Hotel and saying he also had new information on the investigation he wanted to share after his shift. His timing was impeccable. Fahy had just received the recording from Homeland Security.
Fahy clicked the “Play” button again.
“No, you’re killing me, man. Washington was built on sweetheart deals,” Bayard said.
Fahy felt like an impatient child about to open the biggest present under the tree on Christmas morning. Maybe this recording would finally reveal a clue he needed to piece the Bayard puzzle together. He knew he might have something when he heard the fat man’s expletives on the terrace of the W Hotel. Ballistic-laden words like shoot and kill guaranteed every word of the conversation would be recorded. And depending on the severity of the perceived threat, the computers had either alerted officials immediately or relayed a message to a low-level agent for later review.
“Jesus, I hate Washington summers,” Jones said. “Shoot, Dave. These summers are murder.”
“Dougie, how long has the staff been handlin’ this?”
“They’ve been digging through your finances for nearly a year. We’ve got to be prepared to release them publicly soon. When you win the nomination next week, we can’t avoid releasing more information. We’ll be pressing the Dems to do the same.”
“So what’s your issue?”
“You’ve made a lot of money—all legal, mind you—but based on your knowledge of what happens on Capitol Hill. If we go public with your finances, the Democrats will blast you with insider trading charges. The race is too close for that kind of distraction.”
Fahy leaned in to one of the speakers to listen closer.
“My investments are all legal,” Bayard said.
“Insider trading based on your knowledge of pending legislation was legal,” Jones replied.
“Just because that White House bastard Bill Croom pressured us to change the ethics rules, doesn’t mean I broke the law.”
“But it looks bad. And if they get ahold of this Grand Cayman thing, you’re toast.”
Fahy clicked on the “Pause” button again. “The Grand Cayman thing?” Fahy turned to McCauley. “Is that what you wanted to talk about?”
McCauley looked up from the speakers. “Maybe.”
Fahy looked at him briefly, silently questioning his response, and then clicked the “Play” button again on his computer screen.
“How do I keep the public—and nosy reporters—from digging deeper into my investme
nts?” asked Bayard.
“Senator, let’s face it, most reporters add two and two and get chocolate. You think those dim bulbs could ever figure out any of this? But the opposition’s another matter. They’re the smart guys in the room.”
“So you think we can cover up my crony capitalism?” Bayard laughed. “Crony capitalism. Who came up with that phrase anyway?”
“It’s this Lamurr lease in the Caribbean—in Grand Cayman—that I’ve got trouble with. We can’t let it see the light of day. I’ve come up with a pretty simple plan, and well, if I do say so myself, it’s rather ingenious.”
“I’m listening.”
Fahy watched the audio signal bounce up and down on his computer screen. He was enjoying every minute of this conversation.
“We have your lawyers put the offshore stuff in a blind trust, and it disappears altogether from your public financial disclosure report.”
Jones’s voice practically crackled from the computer. “The Senate rules don’t require public disclosure of any details from a blind trust.”
“They don’t?”
“Not a word.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. You’re a friggin’ genius.” “I’ll get the lawyers to make the trust retroactive to last year and move the island assets in there now.” “Is that legal?”
“Do we care at this point? If any nosy reporters ever catch wind of it, we’ll be long past the due date on this election and can finesse it a dozen different ways. We’re talking reporters after all. They don’t know chocolate from vanilla, and we’ll feed ‘em strawberry.” Jones was laughing.
“What?” The technology made the conversation so vivid; Fahy could almost hear the puzzled look on Bayard’s face.
“It’s just so perfect,” Jones continued, his voice rising half an octave. “I love the irony.”
“Irony?”