by Chris Allen
Morgan nodded and began working his way through the other clippings while Nash hovered, holding the torch for him. The next batch of images appeared to be from business pages covering the usual corporate issues involving bucket loads of money, with an angle towards new and emerging technologies. They featured a younger man, probably in his thirties, very tall – possibly six-five or so – with classic Norse features. He was big, barrel-chested, with flaming red hair, a beard that presented like a battering ram and ice-blue eyes. It wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine him in a pelt, standing at the prow of a longboat, preparing to storm a distant coastline.
“OK, so this is the Great Dane. His name is Carl Frederik Budolfsen,” Nash began. Morgan sensed some hostility in Nash’s tone but didn’t press it. “Thirty-six. He’s the new tech whizz-kid on the block. Not world famous yet but soon enough he’ll be a household name. He’s a dot com millionaire, made his money in UAVs, commercial drones and is investing widely in Artificial Intelligence. He’s known to be aggressive in all his business dealings. Has literally gone berserk in meetings when he’s not happy about something, even the minutiae. His is a take-no-prisoners approach, which isn’t surprising given his ancestry. Some business commentators have even taken to calling him ‘The Viking’. His personal wealth is currently valued at around $150 million and it’s on the way up. But it’s not him that I want you to notice yet, major.”
Morgan looked up. “OK, so tell me.”
“In almost every one of those pictures there’s a particular person who is always just behind Budolfsen. Can you see who I’m talking about?”
Morgan studied all of the Budolfsen clippings again. It took a few extra seconds but he eventually landed on the right face. “The girl,” he said. “She’s not standing on an equal footing with him, so she doesn’t appear to be a business partner or sibling. Who is she, his assistant?”
“Correct, major. She is, to all intents and purposes, his assistant. Or, at least, that’s what they want everybody to think. But there’s more to this little honey.” Nash pulled across the picture in which the young woman was most clearly present. He spun the clipping around to face Morgan. She was white-blond, tanned and tall, with all the features you’d expect of a classic Scandinavian beauty. Morgan could picture her on a catwalk for Victoria’s Secret.
“Her name is Erika Gustafsson. She’s twenty-four and, as his executive assistant, travels with him everywhere.”
“Lucky him,” said Morgan. “OK, John, so that’s all three. We’ve got a senator, a Viking and a supermodel. Now, where the hell are you going with all this, and how do I fit in?”
Nash laughed. He switched off the torch and sat down on the floor opposite Morgan.
“When you end up like this, you know, without anybody or anything, you do a lot of walking. I mean, what else is there to do, right? If you sit around or spend all day lying on a bench, you’d go out of your fucking mind. So, guys like me, we walk. And I mean everywhere. Over the last year or so, I reckon I’ve walked almost every street, road, alleyway and aqueduct in this part of DC. I’m comfortable around here. I grew up in Northwest, so it’s familiar. There are plenty of places to sleep, especially out at Rock Creek, but you have to keep moving and you never sleep in the same spot twice. Apart from this place at the moment. I’ve been coming here a lot lately, while I’ve been keeping an eye on these assholes. It’s dry and it’s warm, you know. And I can stash my gear here. I can move faster when I don’t have to lug it around with me.”
Morgan remained silent, listening, trying to comprehend how fate could have stripped so much from this decorated Veteran and replaced it all with the life he now led. He wondered if Nash was suffering survivor guilt. It was a common condition, particularly amongst guys who have seen a lot and lost a lot of friends. They found it difficult to fathom that they had been spared while many of their closest friends had not. Now wasn’t the time to ask.
“Walking around like I do, you become invisible. People just tag you as a homeless guy and, if you’re not bothering anyone, you just disappear from view, even though you’re right in front of them. You’re of no consequence, so you don’t exist. For a while it got to me, I’ll be honest. I couldn’t find anyone to talk to and if I tried to start a conversation with anyone they’d just look at me like I was some crazy asshole and walk away as fast as they could. After a while, I just accepted it. I started planning where I would walk to and how long it would take me to get back to some reference point, usually somewhere close to the zoo. I’ve always liked the zoo. Anyway, when you do that for long enough, you stay fit, you do a lot of thinking and then you start noticing stuff. Lots of stuff. You notice everything from the everyday minutiae of normal people’s lives right up to who’s doing who in the big end of town, if you know what I mean. So, one day a few months back, I start noticing our man, the Senator, frequenting this part of town in his own car, no driver, no security, late at night. At first it was just him in his car driving past, but then I get curious and wonder where he’s going or where he’s been. So, I start paying more attention. Turns out, there’s a place just across the street from here, a swanky residence, where old guys get hooked up with young girls. A private club. Members only.”
“But I thought you said this guy’s planning to run for the Presidency?” said Morgan.
“He is,” Nash replied. “But he’s also into young girls.”
“How young are we talking?”
“Too young,” Nash replied. “Like, still at high school kinda young. Fifteen, sixteen tops. As far as I can tell, the girls are picked based on the particular taste of the client, you know. I’ve seen all types going into that place. Hell, I’ve even seen girls arrive on the bus after school. Mostly these meetings are one on one – one girl per client – but sometimes there might be two or three girls and one client. That’s the Senator’s preference. When I’ve been watching him, I’ve seen the girls arrive about an hour before he does. Then, an hour later, he turns up. He’s usually in there for an hour, more or less, and then he’s gone. The girls are usually snuck out the side entrance once the clients have left the area.”
“Jesus,” said Morgan, angrily. “If you’ve seen it, there must be others who know about this. Local people? Why hasn’t this place been shut down? And, what about the girls’ parents? If these kids are still at school, how is it that they’re out so late?”
“Come on, major. You’re a man of the world. Real life for some kids ain’t good. I guarantee every one of those girls is trying to escape something. Money is a big motivator. They’d earn more for one night up there than they would in a whole year flipping burgers.”
“Can’t the police step in?”
“There are all sorts of very important people taking numbers to get into that club, major; the types of people you don’t mess with in this town. They can make you disappear without a trace. These are the people who run the world. You don’t just report them to the police.”
Morgan was angry. This reminded him of the Night Witch luring vulnerable young women into the sex slave trade. He looked at Nash and knew he was as angry about it as he was, but Nash had had more time to digest it. He’d obviously been planning to pull it all apart layer by layer for a long time, and that’s why he needed Morgan – but there was something else. Nash hadn’t dragged Morgan all the way to Washington just to tell him about an exclusive sex club that catered to the rich and influential by preying on the young and vulnerable. As abhorrent as that was, there was more to this. Nash just hadn’t got that far in the mission brief yet.
“Here we go,” said Nash, glancing at his watch as the lights of an approaching car raced across the walls on the far side of the room. “Quick, look across the street and watch very carefully, especially when he gets to the door. It’s always the same routine. Has to be. If there’s the slightest change to the routine, if the wrong face opens the door, the whole system falls down. So, watch.”
Morgan extracted the SONY DEV-50 digital recording
binoculars he’d managed to borrow from Intrepid’s liaison officer in DC, and set them up on a lightweight tripod. He saw a car, it looked like a new Cadillac, slowing down on the opposite side of the street in front of a long stretch of three-story row houses about thirty yards farther along. The Cadillac was rolling to a stop in front of the house on the corner. The house, a red brick Victorian Gothic design that bled into the red brick of the sidewalk, reminded Morgan of the Bates mansion from Hitchcock’s Psycho. Fortunately, despite the sidewalk being generously attended by a line of elm trees set within small squares of grass, there was sufficient distance between each elm for Morgan to be able to observe the sidewalk and the entrance of the corner house clearly.
“What do you see?” asked Nash. He was still sitting on the floor.
“It’s a silver Cadillac CTS-V sedan,” Morgan replied. He read out the registration.
“That’s the one. What did I tell you – routine; it’s everything to these people. It’s the second Saturday of the month. That means he arrives at 10pm sharp. Different day, different time. Keep watching. Focus on the front door when he goes in.”
Morgan kept his eyes locked on the Cadillac. It had now pulled up directly in front of the house. The red brake lights flared and then extinguished as the car shut down. The driver’s door opened and, through the DEV-50 binoculars, he saw Senator Bartholomew T. Redmond emerge. Morgan adjusted the magnification and began recording the images he was seeing. Redmond lost no time in getting from the car to the front door. He didn’t have to knock. There was a sudden flash of light as the door was opened. It was just long enough and bright enough for Morgan to clearly see the person who met Redmond and ushered him inside. Then the door snapped shut.
“The Viking’s assistant. What’s her name again … Erika …?”
“Erika Gustafsson,” Nash replied. “The very same, major. Good to know you haven’t lost that keen eye for detail I remembered you for.”
“She’s pretty hard to miss, John,” Morgan replied, still glued to the DEV-50 studying the far side of the street. “So, what’s your theory? I know you’ve got more up your sleeve than just some bunch of pathetic old farts getting their rocks off. Let’s have it.”
“How ’bout I tell you in the car,” Nash replied, packing up his clippings and returning them all to the plastic bag. It was obvious that he intended to continue to show Morgan pieces of the puzzle, walking him over the terrain, joining all the dots while the game was in play, rather than simply describing them. Morgan wasn’t keen on being strung along but he owed it to Nash to follow. At least for a little longer, while he made his own mind up. He had to admit, there was enough going on to keep him interested so far. After all, Redmond was considered a Presidential hopeful for 2020; the sex scandal alone would be enough to sink him. Then there was this added layer of a potential connection to Budolfsen, albeit via his assistant. Was there something underhanded going on between Redmond and Budolfsen in relation to Redmond’s positions on the various senate committees – Appropriations, or Defense, perhaps? What was it that Budolfsen was into – emerging tech; UAVs and Drones? And there was also Artificial Intelligence in the mix, a highly contentious issue globally with obvious defense applications.
Morgan followed Nash out of the building the way they’d come in – via the yard at the back and along an alleyway, and they made their way around to where Morgan had parked the car, a gray Chevrolet Cruze, about fifty yards east of the intersection where the club was located. They got in and Morgan looked at Nash expectantly.
“Now we wait,” Nash said. He checked his watch. “In about twenty minutes, Bart T.’s Cadillac will take off again, heading south along 35th Street; we’ll see him cross the intersection up ahead. Like I said before, he doesn’t hang around. Once he’s had his knee trembler, he gets going pretty much straight away. Then, about five minutes after he leaves, we’ll see a smart little Mercedes pull out of the side entrance to the house, on the P Street side. That’ll be Erika Gustafsson. She’ll come onto the intersection and turn left.”
“And then?”
“And then we follow her, but don’t worry. I already know where she’s headed.”
Sure enough, twenty minutes later the lights of Redmond’s Cadillac blazed and the Senator disappeared south along 35th. Like clockwork, five minutes after that, a second car emerged from the side entrance on P Street, turned toward the intersection and then immediately turned left and raced out of sight.
“Let’s go, major,” said Nash.
“Just wait a second. This club caters to the top end of town. That means they operate at a heightened state of risk awareness all the time. They’d have to. I noticed a black Chevrolet Suburban parked farther along 35th Street with two guys in it, facing the house. Something about them doesn’t suggest law enforcement, so they’re most likely minders, making sure nothing unexpected happens outside while the clients are getting serviced inside. And I can’t imagine Ms Gustafsson getting around without protection when it’s all shut down either. So …”
Sure enough, a few seconds after Gustafsson’s Mercedes had moved off, the Chevrolet Suburban Morgan had spotted earlier cut quickly across the intersection behind her.
“And there it is.”
Nash remained silent; he’d clearly missed that element. Morgan drove casually along P Street to the intersection and, turning right, followed the tail lights of the big Chevy at a safe distance while maintaining eyes on Erika Gustafsson’s Mercedes Sports as they all headed north along 35th Street. They drove past the Georgetown Visitation Preparatory School, turned left onto Reservoir Road for a short distance and then right onto 37th Street, once again heading north. Beside him, Nash remained absolutely calm and quiet. Morgan had to admit that he was impressed by the level of detail Nash had managed to capture on these people: who they were, what they looked like, their routines down to the last second. And that dossier he’d put together – newspaper clippings. No database. No internet. No help. Just good old-fashioned, flat-footed police work, as General Davenport would say. It was incredible to think that Nash had managed all this with nothing but patience, persistence and, of course, his highly advanced observation skills. Nash had harnessed all the skills and experience he’d learned and utilized as a US Army Ranger and applied them perfectly to a domestic setting. He had managed to turn his misfortune into a positive, drawing on the anonymity of his homelessness to hide in plain sight while conducting his reconnaissance. And these privileged people, considered the elite of society, just went about their business as though Nash, a decorated Veteran, didn’t even exist. But now who was having the last laugh? Morgan’s reservations were diminishing rapidly, the more time he spent with Nash.
Soon they veered left onto Tunlaw Road and then took a right onto Calvert Street. By the time they were turning left onto Wisconsin Avenue, they had traveled no more than two miles. Seconds later they were driving past the entrance gates of a foreign embassy, watching the Mercedes disappear without impediment beyond the security check point. The Chevy followed it in.
Morgan looked at Nash. Nash smiled.
“I told you,” said Nash. “This shit is fucking huge.”
DAY 4 – SUNDAY
Office of the United States National Central Bureau
Interpol Washington
Washington DC
“How goes it?” said Morgan.
“All good here,” Sheridan replied. “We’ve got a couple of things on the boil that I’m going to need you for, but we still have time before you’d have to move. How are things over there, any traction?”
“Actually, yes. If you’ve got a minute, I’d like to run something past you.”
“OK. Shoot.”
It was 10am in DC, which made it 3pm in London. Morgan wanted to update Sheridan back in London via Intrepid’s secure comms link, so he’d grabbed a desk in the operations room reserved for agents, which was co-located with the office of Melanie Vaughan, Intrepid’s recently appointed station chief at Inte
rpol Washington. The Intrepid field office, including Vaughan’s area, was sparsely furnished, pretty much workstations, digital screens and comms tech, with a paucity of personal effects and absolutely no photographs of family or significant others. All Morgan knew about Vaughan was that she was a former senior member of the US Secret Service. She’d protected three Presidents – Clinton, Bush and Obama – and had run numerous operations targeting counterfeiting and high-tech financial crimes. She’d received a string of decorations and commendations across her career and now, recently retired from the Secret Service, she was the ideal choice for Intrepid’s representative in Washington. Officially, though, her role was simply Interpol liaison.
Morgan had briefed Vaughan on what he knew so far about Nash, Redmond and Gustafsson – along with the possibility of a connection to Budolfsen, and asked Vaughan for assistance in gathering as much intelligence as she could on all of them. Morgan also handed over all the digital images he’d captured. Finally settled in, Vaughan left him to it.
Now Morgan was stretched out in the chair with his feet up on the corner of the desk; a habit. Outside it was four degrees, raining and windy. He wondered where Nash had slept last night. Despite very carefully offering him a room, Nash had declined and said he’d be OK. Remembering Rob McDowell’s advice about respecting the boundaries, Morgan didn’t press the point. He just hoped Nash would accept his help, eventually.