by Andrew Grant
The rickety typist’s chair I’d sat on yesterday had been relegated to the far corner of the boardroom and was now half hidden under a tangle of navy blue overcoats. But that wasn’t a problem. Eight more chairs had been brought up and shared out along each side of the big granite table. I headed to the right, where two empty seats separated Tanya from a plump forty-something in a gray suit. The backrest of the one nearer her was stained, so I went to swap it with its neighbor.
“Hey,” the plump guy said. “Someone’s using that.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Me.”
The double doors opened again and a guy hurried in with four large coffees wedged into a cardboard tray. He left one in the place to my right and took another round to Varley, who was sitting on his own at the center of the long side of the table. Then the new guy came back and flopped into the seat next to me, leaving two cups unclaimed.
“Which one of those was for Rosser?” I said.
“Why would one be for him?” he said.
“Come on, which one?”
“That one. Why?”
“I’m guessing black, no sugar?”
“Right. But what’s that to you?”
“That’s just how I like it,” I said, taking the cup and passing the other one to Tanya.
“Hey,” the new guy said. “That’s…”
“Yes?” I said, turning to look at him.
“Hot. Maybe. Still.”
“Gentlemen,” Varley said. “And lady. Time to get under way. I guess you don’t all know our English friends, so let’s start with a quick round of introductions. We’ll go clockwise. Ivan?”
“Ivan Sproule,” the plump guy said. “FBI Special Operations, working for Mitchell out of New York.”
“Brian Schmidt,” the guy with the coffee said. “Also FBI Special Ops.”
“David Trevellyan,” I said. “Yesterday, in league with the devil. Today, innocent bystander slash tour guide.”
“Tanya Wilson,” Tanya said. “British Consulate.”
“Lieutenant Byron McBride,” the guy opposite Tanya said. “NYPD intelligence task force. I’m pulling together a citywide response to the spate of homicides involving elderly and vagrant victims.”
“Detective Rosenior,” the next guy said. “NYPD intell, working for Lieutenant McBride.”
“That just leaves me,” Weston said from his seat opposite the plump guy. “And our English friends certainly know who I am.”
Varley stayed with Weston for his first set of questions, which involved asking for a full account of the raid on Lesley’s house and then picking it to shreds. How had they entered? Where had they searched? How long had they taken? What had they found? How had they documented the scene? Could they have missed anything? How could he be sure? Had they taken photos? Had forensics unearthed anything later? Varley was relentless, firing his queries and driving Weston over and over the same ground for a full twenty minutes.
The police officers were next to come under the microscope, but Varley came at them from a different angle. This time he wasn’t interested in one specific case, but pushed them for detailed breakdowns of the previous year’s crime figures. How many vagrants had been murdered, precinct by precinct? What were their age groups? Gender? Religion? Previous occupations? Cause of death? How many had made it into the press? State or country of birth? How many had been cleared? The barrage was exhausting, and Varley tired of it first. McBride was still going strong, wading through his endless reservoir of statistics when Varley cut him off and turned to me.
“Mr. Trevellyan, you recently infiltrated the criminal organization of the woman known to us, but not exactly loved, as Lesley?” he said. “Is that correct?”
“Yes,” I said. “She tried to recruit me.”
“And she raised the subject of Agent Raab’s death with you?”
“She did.”
“What did she say about it?”
“That one of her operatives had killed him.”
“The individual you brought here this morning?”
“You heard him say that for himself.”
“Did she say why they targeted an FBI agent?”
“She said they didn’t. They had intended to kill an ordinary vagrant, but her operative failed to establish Raab’s true identity before pulling the trigger. Which I guess you could take as a testimony to Raab’s skill in working undercover.”
“Why did they want to kill a vagrant? How was her operation linked to Raab’s case?”
“I don’t believe it was. I think she was involved with identity theft. It had nothing to do with the railroad killings.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because Agent Raab had a stolen Social Security card in his wallet when he was found, and I saw a similar card in someone’s possession at Lesley’s house. That can’t be a coincidence.”
“Maybe not. It’s an interesting angle. We should follow up on it. Make absolutely sure there’s no connection.”
“I’ll get right on it,” Schmidt said.
“Good,” Varley said. “Now, let’s recap. Based on Lesley’s conversation with Commander Trevellyan and the confession from her operative that I heard myself, we can be confident we know who killed Mike Raab. Anyone unhappy with that?”
No one responded.
“Agent Weston searched Lesley’s premises and found no evidence that Raab was deliberately targeted, or that the gang had been acting on information received from within the bureau. Anyone disagree?”
Silence.
“Lieutenant McBride has thoroughly analyzed all the available data, and has identified no pattern or trend consistent with the targeting of federal agents in New York. Anyone disagree?”
Silence.
“OK. That being the case, I conclude that Agent Raab simply fell victim to an unrelated criminal act perpetrated by Lesley’s organization, which we know to be both extensive and vicious. As, in a sense, did Commander Trevellyan. Anyone disagree, now’s the time.”
Again, no one spoke. Everyone was still except for Weston, who looked down at the floor.
“All right then. This is what we’re going to do. Kyle, now we know that Lesley’s involvement was only coincidental, I want you to get moving with the train thing again. Pick up where Raab left off. I don’t want any more bodies.”
“Sir,” Weston said.
“Ivan, work with Commander Trevellyan. Get an up-to-date description of Lesley and all her known associates. I want it with every field office and every PD nationwide before the end of the day. I don’t care that Mike was only caught in her crossfire. She’s still going to pay.”
“Sir,” the plump guy said.
“Brian, you’re on this new ID theft theory. I can’t see how it could be connected to Mike’s case, but it could still be significant. It should be followed up in its own right. Cooperate fully with D.C. And get help from Commander Trevellyan if you need more detail.”
“Yes, sir,” the coffee guy said.
“David, are you happy with that?”
“Not entirely,” I said. “I know it didn’t cause Agent Raab to be targeted, but you do still have a leak. So does the NYPD. People have been passing all kinds of information about me to Lesley, for example. Who knows what else they’re giving her?”
“You’re right. But don’t worry. We’re on it. Standard procedure is to bring in a team from another office to do a deep-dive investigation. They’re on their way. It’ll be a pain in the ass, but they’ll probably want to talk to you, if that’s OK?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Excellent. So, Ms. Wilson, Lieutenant, Detective, thank you for your time this afternoon. I appreciate your input and-”
Lieutenant McBride’s cell phone began to ring. He excused himself and answered the call.
“Sorry, guys,” he said, closing his phone after ninety seconds. “I asked my office to let me know if anything came up that might be related.”
“And was it?” Varley said.
“Don’t think so. Just another vagrant found dead this morning.”
“Not missing any more agents, I hope?” I said.
“Better not be,” Varley said.
“Well, if you are, remember I’ve been with you all day.”
“Don’t say that. You’re making me nervous. McBride, what do we know about this guy?”
“Don’t worry, you’re pretty safe,” McBride said. “The vic was seventy-six. Born in Brooklyn. Name of Charles Bromley. Died of blunt force trauma. Found by a jogger in Central Park. Oh, and he only had one arm.”
“Thank goodness,” Varley said. “All my guys have a full set.”
“What was his middle name?” I said. “The victim. Was it Paul?”
“Does it matter?” McBride said.
“It might.”
“Hold on then. I’ll check.”
“His middle name was, in fact, Paul,” McBride said after a moment on the phone. “How did you know?”
“And his Social Security number?” I said. “Was it 812-67-7478?”
McBride shrugged and made another call.
“You’ve got some explaining to do,” he said when he hung up.
“That’s the name and number I saw on the card at Lesley’s house, yesterday,” I said. “One of her thugs had it.”
“Not possible,” McBride said. “The ME was clear. Time of death was after midnight.”
“They must have already snatched the guy,” Weston said. “Took his card, and kept him holed up somewhere, like a room you never went in. Then brought him back to the city and killed him during the night.”
“That just about works,” Varley said.
“No,” the plump guy said. “It doesn’t. That’s not it at all.”
“Explain it, then,” Weston said.
“Something’s been bothering me ever since I heard a card was found on Raab’s body,” he said. “It didn’t make sense, killing him and leaving the card behind. But now I understand. They’re doing the opposite of what Mr. Trevellyan thought. They’re not stealing identities. They’re creating them.”
“You know, he might be right,” I said. “I’ve heard of something like this before. In Africa, or somewhere. It’s clever.”
“What is?” Varley said.
“It’s a Social Security scam,” the plump guy said. “Lesley must have a guy inside the department. What he does is create hundreds, maybe even thousands of dummy accounts. Then they skim off the payments for a bunch of people who don’t exist.”
“Thousands?” the coffee guy said. “Could be big money. How much do retired people get?”
“Don’t know,” the plump guy said, unclipping a PDA from a holster on his belt. “But I can find out. I’ll Google it, now. OK. Here we go. It’s taking me to the Social Security Administration Web site. It says the maximum payment for a retired worker is $2,185 per month, and the average is $1,079.”
“They’d stick somewhere around the average,” the coffee guy said. “To avoid attention. But how many fake accounts do they have? That’s the key.”
“Sorry,” the plump guy said. “Dead end. There’s no way to tell.”
“Can’t you estimate?” Tanya said. “How many people receive Social Security over here?”
“Give me a second,” the plump guy said. “Here we go. In New York, 1,996,230. And that was in 2005, so there’ll be even more now.”
“OK,” Tanya said. “And how accurate is that data?”
“Federal standard is 99.96 percent,” the plump guy said. “Which isn’t bad.”
“Not bad,” Tanya said. “But even so, point-zero-four percent of almost two million is a fair few dummy accounts.”
“Around eight hundred,” I said.
“And if each one receives, say, thirteen thousand dollars a year?” Tanya said.
“Wow,” the coffee guy said. “That’s well over ten million dollars, annually.”
“If all your assumptions are right,” Weston said. “And if all the false accounts are fraudulent, not just mistakes. And if all the fraudulent ones are tied to Lesley.”
“They will be,” Varley said. “Trust me. She doesn’t tolerate competitors.”
“But even if it’s half that amount, it’s still huge,” the plump guy said. “And dead easy. Once it’s set up, the money will keep rolling in all on its own.”
“I just don’t see it,” Weston said. “Surely they have auditors.”
“Of course they do,” I said. “That’s why people are getting killed.”
“If it’s like previous scams, the department will randomly check X-number of accounts every month,” the plump guy said. “The inside man will match the list against the dummy ones he set up. And any time he sees they’re investigating one of his, he’ll warn Lesley.”
“So?” Weston said.
“So Lesley will have a suitable homeless guy killed,” the plump guy said. “Plant a fake Social Security card on the body. The police find it, the victim’s new identity works its way back through the system, and the investigators take that as proof their records were legit all along.”
“That’s why they moved Agent Raab’s body,” Tanya said. “Remember how it had been dragged to the front of the alley? David practically tripped over it. Lesley wanted it found in a hurry.”
“Sounds almost foolproof,” Varley said. “Lieutenant, can you tell how many victims’ records were being audited at the time they died?”
“Not right now,” McBride said. “But give me a week. I’ll get the new parameters added to the database.”
Give the guy a week. He’ll add the new parameters. Which is fine, from an admin point of view. But if you were Lesley, would you be scared?
NINETEEN
Some skills, the navy can teach you.
Others, they can only develop. There has to be something already there, inside you, for them to work with. I first figured that out when we were learning about close-target reconnaissance. Surveillance, as most people think of it. The approach was that before we could try out any techniques for ourselves, we had to go on loan to the army for a week. We were told they needed untainted “volunteers” to be tracked by a group of trainee spooks who were taking their final assessments. It seemed like an easy enough assignment. All you had to do was walk around a different city center each day and carry out a number of mundane tasks like posting letters or buying groceries. Our brief was to keep our eyes and ears open, and every evening give a written report on how many tails we’d spotted and where. We were warned the spooks could be anywhere. In cars, on foot, riding bicycles, walking dogs, sitting in cafes. If they could observe us without being detected, they would pass their course. But as usual with the navy, there was something they weren’t telling us. Being stalked by the army guys wasn’t just the end of their evaluation. It was the start of our own. If you couldn’t pick up, instinctively, when you were being followed, you never made it to the next stage. Because there are a lot of things you had to know to make you effective in the field. But only one thing you had to have. A kind of sixth sense.
Useful, if you wanted to pass your assessment.
Vital, if you wanted to stay alive afterward.
The table Tanya had booked for us turned out to be at Fong’s. That was the same restaurant I’d eaten at two nights ago, just before walking into the whole debacle over Raab’s body. And as good as the place was, choosing to go back so soon did seem a little strange. The feeling that I wasn’t getting the full picture was still gnawing at me when I arrived, exactly at nine-thirty, and I knew it wouldn’t go away until I’d asked Tanya what she’d been thinking of when she made the reservation. But as it happened, I couldn’t ask her anything. Because she didn’t turn up.
I had the same waiter as last time. He gave me the same table. And when Tanya’s apologetic text arrived he gave me the same half amused, half pitiful look you always get when you eat out alone.
I ordered the same meal. The same wine. And I was staying in the same hote
l, so I decided to complete the whole deja vu experience by walking back the same way. Except that by the time I reached Raab’s alleyway, I had a strong feeling I was no longer on my own.
Five people had left Fong’s around the same time as me. Two couples and one single male. I wasn’t too concerned about the couples. They’d been in the restaurant before I arrived, sitting together, and I watched them hang around at the edge of the sidewalk chatting for a few moments before they drifted off in the opposite direction. The guy was much more interesting, though. I hadn’t seen him inside, eating or working. He’d just appeared from the side of the building, near the staff entrance, and then loitered in the shadows until he saw which way I was headed. He set off in front of me and walked fast until he was twenty feet ahead. Then he slowed his pace to match mine, carefully keeping the gap between us roughly constant.
At the first corner he turned right, the way I was planning to go. I followed him into the next street and found he’d stopped ten feet from the intersection and was standing sideways, looking toward me and laboriously trying to light a cigarette with a spluttering old Zippo. As soon as he saw me he snapped the lighter closed and moved off again in the same direction, quickly stretching the gap back out to twenty feet. The same thing happened at the next corner, except that this time he’d paused to fiddle with the heel of his right shoe. So, when I reached the mouth of the alley, I decided it was time for a test. Without breaking step I dodged sideways into the gloom and flattened myself against the wall.
Nothing happened for half a minute. Then I heard footsteps coming back toward me. One set, fast and light. I looked down and scanned the layer of garbage on the alley floor until I spotted something suitable-a section of wooden banister rail, about four feet long. I crouched down, took a firm hold, and when the guy from Fong’s hurried into view I scythed it around in a low arc toward the street. It connected with his shins, halfway between his knees and ankles. He shrieked and cartwheeled forward, not quite bringing his arms up in time to save his face from plowing into the sidewalk.
I stepped out of the alley and checked both ways, up and down the street. There were no pedestrians. No vehicles were moving. No windows overlooked us. No one had seen what happened. I leaned down to check the guy’s pulse and breathing. Both were fine. He was just stunned, so I moved on to his pockets. He had a wallet, cash, a cell phone, and two sets of keys. Nothing of any use. The only thing worth taking was a Browning Hi-Power 9 mm, which he’d tucked into the waistband of his jeans.