The Bricklayer

by Noah Boyd

  “Then we’re all set?” Vail said.

  “There’s one small problem. Because the purpose of the search warrant is so routine, and his apartment is apparently abandoned, there’s no justification for a nighttime entry. But a suggestion—sunrise is a little after five thirty, which is a time when most of his fellow apartment dwellers will be deep in REM sleep.”

  THE ONLY SOUND in the dimly lit hallway was the metallic scratching of Tom Demick’s lock picks as he raked the tumblers of Stanley Bertok’s door lock. Vail had been surprised by the technical agent’s appearance when he had been introduced to him. His hair and full beard were pure white and made him look much older than his fifty-one years. He was stocky with a belly that hung amply over his belt. Vail supposed that because he didn’t look like anyone’s preconceived notion of a clandestine-operations agent, it gave him the perfect cover should he be interrupted. Demick’s hands, especially his fingers, were thick and stubby, like those of a second- or third-generation fisherman or some other occupation that required digital strength and leverage rather than quick dexterity. However, they worked precisely with no wasted motion. It took less than three minutes before Demick straightened up and carefully rotated the lock cylinder open. He looked at Kate to see if she needed anything else. She gave him a silent salute of thanks, and he lumbered off toward the rear parking lot.

  Vail opened the door and stepped in quickly. Kate followed him, and while he locked the dead bolt, she placed a copy of the search warrant on the rickety kitchen table. There was still a copy of the first one executed by Los Angeles agents almost a week and a half earlier.

  The one-bedroom apartment was sparsely furnished, and although its occupant hadn’t been there for a while, the acrid stink of cigarette smoke was still in the air. On a table next to a threadbare sofa was an answering machine; alongside it sat an ashtray with half a dozen butts in it. Kate handed Vail a pair of evidence gloves.

  Although the light wasn’t blinking, the display on the answering machine showed three messages that had been heard previously but not erased. Vail hit the Play button and listened as one of Bertok’s ex-wives threatened him, in a routine voice, about his child-support payment being late again. The second message was the same woman not so patiently demanding an immediate call. The last one was someone who identified himself as Josh and asked for a call back. Kate said, “That’s probably his brother in Minnesota.”

  Vail picked the handset out of the cradle and turned it over. A small screen on the back of it revealed an Incoming Calls button. He pushed it and scrolled through the numbers. “612 area code. That sound like Minnesota?”

  “I think so,” Kate said. “He’s been interviewed, and we’re pulling his toll calls once a week just in case.”

  Vail continued to scan the missed calls. He took out a small notebook and started writing the numbers down. “This is interesting. Do we know what time Bertok disappeared?”

  “Not exactly. I don’t think anyone noted the exact minute that the car stopped moving. It was a little before three o’clock in the afternoon on the seventeenth.”

  “There’s a bunch of incoming calls on the day of the drop, all from the same number. It looks like they were calling every fifteen minutes or so. The last one was at two thirty-eight p.m. Whoever it was never left a message.”

  Kate walked over to Vail. “What’s the number?”

  “It’s a 310 area code. Wait, I’ve seen this number.” He flipped through his notebook. “It’s the cell phone Bertok was given to take along on the drop and was left behind with the tracking devices. He was calling his own phone.”

  “To check his messages.”

  “I suppose it could have been routine, bored with the drive or nervous about what he was about to be put through.”

  “Is calling every fifteen minutes routine?” She looked at Vail, who shrugged his shoulders. “Let’s assume for a minute that he had intended to steal the money. If he was calling that frequently, maybe it had something to do with his plans to get away.”

  “Maybe.”

  Kate went back to searching the drawers in the kitchen while Vail finished noting the calls. When Kate was finished, she said, “You done in here?”

  “All set. Let’s search the bedroom. Nine out of ten times, that’s where the goods are found,” he said.

  “That sounds very Freudian.”

  “Who knew more about human beings hiding stuff than Freud?”

  They went into the small bedroom, and while he looked under the mattress, Kate started searching the slim dresser. He said, “I’ve got the bathroom.” After pulling back the shower curtain, he checked the medicine cabinet. Other than shaving material, toothpaste, and aspirin, it was empty. The sink was set in a white vanity. He pulled open the single door and saw that it was empty. He started to leave when he noticed the side of the vanity. On the edge along the wall were faint gray smudges arranged in a pattern as if fingertips had left them. He forced his fingers into the crack between the cabinet and the wall, pulling it out about six inches. Wedged in an unfinished cavity of the wall was an accordion file with an elastic band around it. He took it into the bedroom and sat down to open it.

  “What’s that?” Kate asked.

  “The goods. Apparently Freud was wrong.” Inside were a dozen documents of differing sizes. Shuffling through them, he took out a metal document seal press and a writing tablet, both of which he handed to her. She flipped open the cover on the tablet. There was nothing written inside, but two-thirds of the top page was precisely torn off. And it was blue. “My God,” she said, staring at the tablet.

  “What is it?”

  She turned the torn, blank page toward Vail. “I guess you were right about doing things a second time.” The size, color, and texture of the blue writing paper were identical to those of the neatly torn pieces used for the Pentad notes. She looked back at Vail, who continued to go through the documents methodically. She had learned not to expect any type of reaction from him, but she was amazed that even this piece of evidence didn’t seem to excite him.

  The top four sheets of paper Vail now had in his hands were blank applications for a U.S. passport. The next was a Florida birth certificate. The name at the top had been carefully whitened out, and the name “Ruben Aznar” had been typed over it. Under the document were three more full-size copies that, through the careful use of a copying machine, had eliminated any evidence of the Wite-Out. Vail felt the seal embossed into the bottom of the page and then held it up to the light to read the raised letters. He turned over one of the documents and pressed the metal seal into a blank space. Holding it up at an angle, he said, “That’s what I thought. It’s not the Florida state seal. It’s a notary public for the county of Los Angeles. Unless you really look at it, you think it’s a certified original document.” There were a half-dozen copies of the birth certificate and an application for a Florida driver’s license with a Miami address. “How long did Bertok know about the drop before he flew to Phoenix?”

  Kate said, “I’m not sure, maybe two days. Would that have been enough time to get all this together?”

  “I suppose if you know the right people. Most agents working criminal cases do.”

  “If this is the blue paper used in the notes, the lab should be able to match it.” Still Vail showed no reaction. “Why do you think he chose Miami?”

  “He’s got two million dollars in hundred-dollars bills and knows the serial numbers have been recorded. He needs to get it dry-cleaned. With Miami’s drug history, it’s not exactly a stranger to that type of transaction. Plus, it’s the gateway to the Caribbean. Cayman Islands, Panama, the Bahamas, Netherlands Antilles, and a half-dozen other governments specializing in laundering money and helping Americans evade taxes. Between the secrecy of the banking laws and the individual governments’ interests in keeping the United States out of their business, I’d say it’s a high-probability destination.”

  “This looks like the break we’ve been looking for
. You don’t seem very fired up about this.”

  “We’ve found a few pieces of paper, nothing more.”

  “Excuse me for getting excited, but if you had been on this from the beginning, this would look like the Second Coming of Christ,” she said. “Are we done here? I’ve got to get the Miami office on this.”

  “Can you pack everything up while I take one last look around?” Vail asked. “I want to check all the nooks and crannies.”

  Kate reached over on the bed and pulled the lone pillow out of its case and then started to fill it carefully with the cache of evidence. “Look who’s been promoted to gun bearer.”

  He smiled. “The death of chauvinism has been greatly exaggerated.”

  “And they say all the really great pickup lines have been used.”

  “I assume you’ll get this hand-carried back to the lab.”

  “I will. What’ll you be doing?”

  “I’ll try to get the United States attorney’s office to authorize a pen register on this phone in case Bertok starts calling for messages again.”

  Kate hadn’t considered using the device. It would list all the activity on Bertok’s line including incoming calls that might be traced back to him. “And if they won’t authorize it?” she asked.

  “Then I’ll have to.”

  “FIND ANY Bureau property?” Tye Delson asked.

  “You know,” Vail said, “this would be a lot easier if we didn’t have to read between each other’s lines.”

  “So you want to know if I’m a stand-up gal.”

  “I guess that’s what I’m asking.”

  “Do you know why lawyers follow the rules, Steve? It’s not that they believe in them—in fact their biggest weakness is probably that they feel rules don’t exactly apply to them. No, they follow the rules simply because they’ve seen too many people get caught who didn’t. I have this fairly well-researched idea that at some point in their life, every sociopath dreams of going to law school. Unfortunately, too many of them get through.”

  “Are you calling yourself a sociopath?”

  “We’re all sociopaths. The only variable is whether we control it or it controls us. What I’m saying is that I don’t need to follow all the rules all the time. And I can keep a secret if it’s for the greater good, but at the same time I don’t want to be given up by someone who pledged allegiance and then got faint at the sight of his own blood.”

  “Just because I’m hanging around with a deputy assistant director doesn’t mean I want to be one.”

  “The little bit I’ve been around you, you’re not like any of the other agents I’ve worked with. You have an obvious disregard for protocol, almost like you don’t work for the government. How long have you been on the job?”

  Vail looked at his watch. “Almost two days.”

  “Meaning this isn’t your first time around.”

  “I used to be an agent. Years ago.”

  “And now they’ve rehired you?”

  “More or less. Just for this case.”

  “You must be quite a guy. What is it that makes you so valuable?”

  “I don’t get faint at the sight of my own blood.”

  She laughed. “Then it appears we have the makings of a grand conspiracy. What did you find at Bertok’s apartment?”

  Vail told her about the hidden folder containing the identification documents in the name Ruben Aznar.

  “That alias is a good choice for the Miami area. It’s vague enough where it could be either Hispanic or some other unidentifiable origin because Bertok does not look Latin.”

  “We found another potential lead. On his phone’s incoming calls. Just before they lost contact with him during the drop, he called his apartment from a cell phone. It looks like he was checking his messages.”

  “Any idea for what?”

  “Coupled with those Miami documents, we’re hoping travel arrangements or some contact to launder the money. But those aren’t necessarily high-percentage guesses.”

  “Does that mean you think this entire thing is his doing?”

  “No stone unturned, counselor.”

  “It’s hard to believe that an agent could be behind all this.”

  “We’re open to alternate theories,” Vail said.

  “I know the evidence is piling up, but still.”

  “Either way, we’ve got to find him. I was thinking about a pen register on his apartment phone. If he was checking for some critical message, maybe he’ll call again and we can track him that way. A long shot, but at this point everything is.”

  “I understand that you’ve been out of the Bureau for a while, but pen registers take a mountain of paperwork, and probable cause. And it’s getting worse every time I turn around. I have a feeling that you’re a person who could find alternative means.”

  “All right, we never talked about this.”

  “Did you forget, Steve? I can keep my mouth shut.”

  “Just trying to keep the list to a minimum.”

  “What list?”

  “The one entitled ‘Also Named in the Indictment.’”

  WHEN VAIL GOT back to the FBI office, he was directed to a room that had been set up for Kate while she was in Los Angeles. The door was closed and he could hear her on the phone. He knocked twice and walked in. “Yes, sir, he just came in. I’ll call you back.” She hung up. “That was the director. They’ve just received another demand letter….”

  Vail could see the concern in her eyes. “And?”

  “Three million dollars. He wants you to make the drop.”

  NINE

  KATE STOOD OFF TO THE SIDE, NOT WANTING TO BE NOTICED AS SHE watched Vail. They were in the L.A. FBI’s major-case room. Tom Demick, the tech agent who had so deftly opened Bertok’s apartment door, was taping a microphone wire to Vail’s bare chest. He looked over at her briefly and rolled his eyes in silent prediction that the Pentad’s ingenuity during the first two drops had already rendered the predictable device a waste of time. She smiled back obligingly and continued to search his face and body language for any sign of fear. His hands hung loosely at his side as Demick clipped the radio’s body into the back of his waistband. Vail turned back toward her, and she could see his heart beating against the lean muscle of his chest. She timed it—about forty beats a minute. She thought about the moment he had been asked to make the drop, even though West had died and Bertok had disappeared; he had shown no surprise or apprehension, almost as if he had expected it.

  Vail leaned closer to the tech agent. “Did you get the pen register on Bertok’s phone?” he asked quietly.

  “It’s up and running. I’m checking it as often as I can. Other than the ex-wife and brother, you want to be notified of any calls, right?”

  Abruptly the door opened. The SAC, Mark Hildebrand, walked in and stepped to the side to allow Assistant Director Don Kaulcrick to pass. Kate and Vail looked at each other. Neither of them had any idea he was coming.

  The two men were followed by three other people, one a female agent. She had in her hand one of two straps that were connected to a large canvas bag. A male agent, who stood well over six feet tall and was powerfully built, held the other. They both had on suit coats which rode up over holstered handguns and spare magazine pouches. Evidently the three million dollars had arrived.

  The other man was older, almost completely bald, and dressed in a pair of slacks and a golf shirt. There was an air of confidence about him. He was carrying a large brown leather carryall the size of a small suitcase. Demick introduced everyone as Vail pulled on his shirt and buttoned it. The older man in casual clothing was a technical agent from headquarters and was introduced only as “Bob.” He asked Vail, “You’re making the drop?”

  Vail looked at the athletic-looking agent holding the bag and then at Kaulcrick. “Unless the assistant director knows something I don’t.”

  “You’re making the drop, Steve. But as a matter of fact I do know a little something that might change the way we
’re going to do this.” Kaulcrick pulled a folded document from his coat pocket. “The lab has matched not only the paper from the pad you and Kate found hidden in Bertok’s bathroom to the last Pentad note, but its torn edge as well.”

  “Then this is all Bertok,” Kate said.

  “That seems like a fairly safe bet.”

  Vail said, “So the money is just a way to catch him.”

  “Can you think of a better way for us to get our hands on him?” Kaulcrick said.

  “Does this mean we can go public if we catch Bertok?” Kate asked.

  “The director, being a former federal judge, doesn’t want to take anything for granted. If we gave a big, splashy news release, the Pentad might kill someone else just to remain in character. If there is a Pentad beyond Bertok. Plus the demand note is very specific should anything go wrong. But let’s not worry about that until we get him into custody.” Kaulcrick handed Vail a sheet of paper. “This is a copy to keep with you.”

  FBI,

  Your agent’s greed has complicated everything, so contingencies have become necessary. If you fail to deliver $3M, the sum will be increased to $5M, and that would mean we owe you two more bodies. Two prominent D.C. area newspeople have been selected. As before, should any of this find its way to the media, there will be two less of them to write about it.

  34.344 N 118.511W at 7:17 P.M. on September 2. Look in the sub.

  No guns. No cell phones.

  The Rubaco Pentad

  “So I am going to drop the full three million?” Vail asked.

  “Again, the director doesn’t want to take any chances, so yes. Make the drop, and the agents covering you will take care of grabbing Bertok.”

  Vail looked at the headquarters tech agent and pointed to his bag. “Is there something in there for me?”

  “Because of what happened in the past, we want to be overly cautious. That transmitter you’ve got on has a GPS capability, but I’ve brought two other items for you to carry in case they try to render the primary transmitter inoperable. The first time a river was used to neutralize it. Who knows what it’ll be this time.” From his case, he took out what looked like a wallet. “This is also a GPS transmitter, very new, very micro. If you’re patted down, it looks and feels just like a wallet. It’ll tell us exactly where you are at all times. And it’s waterproof.” Vail took out his own wallet and handed it to Kate, and then put the transmitter in the same back pocket. “Also, we used canvas to fabricate the moneybag because of its thickness. There’s an overlapping seam at the bottom that’s hiding another GPS, which has the same microtechnology as the wallet. It’s even thinner because it doesn’t need the leather to disguise it. The hope is that because this bag weighs almost seventy pounds, the bad guys won’t be picking it up over their heads to check the bottom. Even if they do, it’s extremely difficult to detect.” He reached into the side pockets of the bag and took out three items: an underwater flashlight, a knife with a regular blade and an equally long saw blade, and a low-light monocular.