“Not very much.” Lasher actually knew quite a bit, but wanted to get the man to open up.
“Yeah. You Americans—so full of selves you don’t learn shit about rest of world. Well, Chechnya and Russia fighting since 1917. Take all week to tell you about wars. But you want to know about me, not history. Okay. So Chechnya is Muslim republic. My father strict Sunni. He rule my mother and sisters and me with iron fist. Real prick, you know?”
“My father was the same way,” Lasher said, egging him on. “A total bastard.”
“Then you understand. I hate him. But I have to pretend I’m good Muslim kid, or he beat hell out of me. So I swear, one day I get back at him.”
He stopped, seeming hesitant to go on.
“I don’t blame you, my friend. My father forced me to join the Army. I swore I’d get back at him, too.”
“Yeah, but I do lot more than join army.” Shishani stopped again.
Lasher leaned in, grinning. “Yeah? What did you do?” he asked in a low, conspiratorial voice.
Shishani leaned in, too. His breath stank of garlic and cigarettes and beer.
“I talk lots to Russian neighbor—older guy—about my shitty life. One day he tell me he knows someone who give me opportunity. Pretty soon, he introduce me to other Russian. This guy is officer in FSB,” he said, referring to Russia’s internal security agency, successor to the infamous KGB. “He offer me lots of money to spy against Chechen Muslims fighting Russia.”
“That had to be exciting work for a kid in a Muslim family.”
“Oh yeah. He warns me, ‘very dangerous’—but you know how that sound to teenager. All big adventure.”
The Chechen kept talking while he got up and fetched yet another beer from his refrigerator.
“They tell me, ‘Ali, pretend to still be faithful Muslim.’ They give me cover story about getting trucking job in Moscow, so I can take long trips there and train. Weapons, bombs, what you call ‘tradecraft’ stuff.” He flopped heavily into his chair. “I bring good money back to my family, so my stupid father approves. Nobody suspects.” He grinned lopsidedly and took another long pull on the fresh bottle.
“So that’s how Ali Shishani became an officer in the FSB,” Lasher said.
“No, not officer. Agent. Like hired contractor. I report to FSB ‘handler.’ He give me assignments: Spy and inform and do nasty shit when FSB need somebody ‘deniable.’”
“Oh . . . Well, since you weren’t an officer, I don’t suppose you were lucky enough to get really important assignments,” Lasher prompted.
Shishani roared with laughter. “Like hell! Plenty important stuff. First assignment was because I attend main mosque in Grozny. I find out names in Wahhabi terrorism cell there—five guys—before they go to Moscow and cause trouble. FSB let me guide SVR hit team to houses and take them out. They let me shoot one myself!”
Lasher raised his bottle in salute. “I’m impressed, Ali.”
“Just the beginning. Next year—summer 1999—Muslim rebels invade Russian republic Dagestan, near Chechnya. FSB says to me, ‘Come back to Moscow, Ali; we have even bigger job for you.’”
Another pull almost emptied the bottle. The Chechen was relaxed and unguarded, now, slurring his words.
“Ray, you know about 1999 Moscow apartment bombings?”
Lasher had heard of the terrorist incident, but shook his head.
“Look it up. Ever since 1989 Soviet Union breakup, Russia want to bring Chechen Republic back into new Russia Federation. But they need excuse for invasion. So, 1999, Boris Yeltsin is sick, unpopular president of Russia. Vladimir Putin is young, powerful head of FSB. Then Yeltsin makes Putin prime minister, and Putin picks stooge to replace him at FSB.
“Right after that, September, bombs blow up apartment buildings in Moscow and couple other Russian cities. Three hundred people die. Authorities blame Chechen separatists for terrorism.” He raised and wagged his forefinger. “But that is just official lie. Chechen Muslims did not do this.” He took a last pull, draining the bottle.
Lasher frowned. “How do you know that?”
Shishani lowered the bottle and raised his eyes. They gleamed with a smug sense of pride.
“Because I help FSB plant bombs.”
Lasher stared at him. “You did?”
“You damn right!” the Chechen replied, his fat lips in a loose, stupified grin. “I do this with other ‘deniable’ guys. See, this is FSB ‘provocation.’ And it work so good, too. When authorities blame Chechens, much anger all over Russia. Putin on TV promises revenge against murderers and orders bombing of Grozny. He leads Russia into war against Chechnya and becomes national hero. Next April, he is elected president, very easy, and replaces sick Yeltsin.”
“You’re saying Putin was behind those bombings?”
“You better believe! Stupid FSB officers even get arrested by Ryazan city police planting another apartment bomb. Many mistakes like that, so investigators figure out who really plant bombs. But those lawyers and reporters are then big danger to Putin. So he orders security services to eliminate them. And they do. Shootings. Poison. Car accidents.” Another loose-lipped grin of bared yellow teeth. “I help with some of those, too.”
Lasher was quiet a moment, thinking it through.
“You are still working with FSB?”
The Chechen shook his head. “Nah. I am—how is the word?—‘blown’ by somebody in Grozny mosque. They figure out I spy on them. So things get real hot for me in Chechnya. I barely get out alive to Moscow. FSB says, ‘Ali, you are not too good for us anymore with Muslims.’ But my handler likes me. He says, ‘Ali is loyal and has good skills.’ So they send me to SVR . . . You know which is which, Ray? FSB is like your FBI: for internal security. SVR is like CIA: sends spies and illegals outside Russia.”
“So you work for SVR now.”
“Sort of. See, SVR want ‘deniable’ agents, too. They send me here across Mexico border. But I work direct for ‘Dignity and Honor’—organization of ex-KGB, FSB, SVR officers. Retired badasses, you know? Some still on contract and do active measures, ‘wet work’ against Kremlin enemies, all that shit. But sometimes they hire me, too, because I am never employee for Russia government. Even more deniable—you see?”
“I do see,” Lasher said, smiling. Shishani’s story at last confirmed what he had long suspected: Trammel was working with the SVR. That explained everything. How Trammel had been linked up with Shishani. The Russian security guards at his estate. Why he had dispatched Lasher to silence Muller. And why investigators like Wasserman and the CAP people had to be stopped, too, before the Russian network was exposed.
“Which brings us to our own operation, Ali. With your background, I see now why they picked you to help us. Did your handler explain who and what we need?”
“Yeah.” Shishani’s head bobbed as if barely attached to his shoulders. “No problem.”
“You can get all the necessary people and materials into Washington?”
The Chechen rested a massive, moist paw on the bare skin of Lasher’s forearm.
“Ray, I say no problem. Not only drug cartels smuggle across Mexico border. We have tunnels there, too. SVR makes plans way ahead. Long time ago, they send in everything illegals here need for any future . . . what is word?”
“Contingencies?”
“Yeah. ‘Contingencies.’ So everything waits for us in warehouse near Dulles.”
“That’s terrific, my friend. But can you smuggle in a team, too, on this short notice? We’re on a very tight timetable, you know.”
“Not necessary to smuggle. They are here already, too. See, U.S.A. Muslims do not know about Ali back in Chechnya. So, I join mosque here years ago, easy. For SVR contingencies”—he winked—“I recruit cell: four guys who want real bad to make jihad against America.”
He paused to grin and shake his head.
“Stupid Muslim kids. They think I am ISIS. And they think I plan to die with them!”
Ali Shishani tossed
his head back and laughed.
Ray Lasher laughed, too.
TWENTY-ONE
“Hey, Ed.”
Cronin looked up as Erskine stepped into his cubicle. “Hey, stranger,” he answered. “Haven’t seen you in, what? It must be a week, right?”
“Sorry I haven’t been any help lately. Chief still has me chasing my tail on the Fisher homicide. Just checking in to see how the hunt is coming along.”
“Can’t say I’ve made much progress. No fresh leads.”
Erskine spun around a swivel chair to face backward, then settled his ample bulk astride it, resting his big forearms on its back.
“Whoever this guy is—and I’m almost positive now it is only one guy—he’s one real piece of work,” he said. “He must think he’s the reincarnation of the Lone Ranger.”
Cronin smiled. “Or maybe Zorro. The Lone Ranger went after ordinary criminals. Zorro went after corrupt political leaders.”
“Our boy does both.”
“He does. But his aliases suggest it’s the same motive. It’s all about fighting what he thinks are political and legal injustices.” Cronin visualized his prime suspect. “Maybe you could say he’s a philosophical Zorro.”
“Yeah, but he hasn’t used a sword or carved a ‘Z’ in any bodies.”
Cronin chuckled. “Not yet.”
“Give him time . . . By the way—I’ve been thinking about that dead ecoterrorist. Boggs. You doing any follow-up on him?”
“Should I be? What’s he got to do with us?”
Erskine raised a brow. “Well, we suspected a vigilante connection in the attacks on all those ‘green’ businesses and environmentalists last month—right?”
“We did. But the FBI pegged Boggs as good for those.” Cronin broke eye contact to fiddle with a sheet of paper on his desk.
“I’m not so sure, Ed. Those attacks involved a hell of a lot of complicated planning and execution. Far as anybody can tell, Boggs was the only one with brains in his group. He would’ve had to be here in D.C. all the time to organize and run things. But the interrogations of his followers established a timeline that shows he was almost always with them, out there in the forest.”
“I know. Still, the bombings have his m.o. all over them,” Cronin said, not looking up. “The pipe bombs mailed to Senator Conn’s house and CarboNot headquarters. The ones planted in the senator’s car. Boggs’s cell phone dropped outside the senator’s house. And his recorded confession. For once, I agree with the feebs. It’s pretty open and shut that he was behind everything.”
Cronin didn’t mention that the stress analysis of Boggs’s voice on the recording indicated he’d made the confession under duress.
“I read through their reports,” Erskine said. “Yeah, sure, it looks like Boggs planted the bombs. But a lot of the other stuff just doesn’t fit his m.o.”
“What do you mean?” Cronin asked casually.
“The bomb out at Dulles, the one that blew up that billionaire’s plane. The bomber used a drone to deliver it. That’s a method never before tied to Boggs. He always just planted or mailed his bombs. And the type of explosive—the chemicals, the impact trigger—doesn’t match anything he’s ever used before, either.”
Cronin shrugged, but still didn’t look up. “Okay, so he tried something new. He was a genius, right?”
“It’s more than that. The arrangement of dummy businesses at that virtual-office place, and the phone call intercepts—that was really sophisticated. Sure, a lot of it was set up by phone. But some of it couldn’t be. Like planting the bugs they found in those various offices. The descriptions of the guys—or guy—who installed them, all on the same day, don’t match Boggs. Then they’d have to monitor those bugs. Then pull off that complicated scam with the stock market, rerouting the calls of all those investors so they’d lose a fortune.” He rolled his eyes. “That’s ‘Mission: Impossible’ stuff. I don’t think Boggs could’ve done a lot of it. Especially not if he spent almost all his time in the forest.”
Cronin ventured a glance.
“Paul, the feebs figure Boggs was the brains and planned everything, then sent people from his WildJustice gang to do a lot of the doggy work. So he didn’t have to be in D.C. himself all the time. He could have run things remotely.”
“I just can’t wrap my head around it,” Erskine replied. “Genius or not, I can’t see him and his pack of losers pulling off all this shit from a remote camp in the Pennsylvania woods, a couple hundred miles away. Even the cell signals are spotty out there. Besides that, the detectives couldn’t find anybody else in his group who knew about the bombs. Even his girlfriend was in the dark. She insists only that pal of his, Nash, was in on it with him. And they say Nash wasn’t that bright. So Boggs couldn’t have delegated him to do all the complicated stuff.” He scowled. “It just doesn’t add up.”
“But all the hard evidence points to them, and nobody else. Plus, Boggs had a strong motive. He was really pissed off against those targets. He thought they were all traitors to the cause.”
“He may not be the only one with a motive, Ed. Don’t forget the messages left behind at the crime scenes. Same signature ritual as the ones left at the vigilante murders. Same revenge elements and staging.”
“Okay, so Boggs reads the papers and decides to be a copycat.”
“But there’s the other thing. The feeb theory is Boggs killed Nash up there about a month ago. Well, if he killed his pal, then who killed him? And why?”
“What are you saying, Paul?” Cronin forced a chuckle. “You think the vigilante got them both? That’s quite a stretch.”
“I’m saying it looks like there’s another player or players out there, involved with all of this. Right now, it’s just a theory. Once I get this Fisher case off my plate, I may pursue that angle a bit while you run down other leads.” He looked out across the office, to where three tired-looking detectives huddled with their coffee cups, arguing about something. “While I’m at it, I might take another look at Dylan Hunter.”
“What? You think he’s—” Cronin began quickly.
Erskine laughed. “No. Of course not. His alibis are solid. Still . . . I get the feeling he knows more about the vigilante killings than he lets on. He seems to get inside information before anyone else. I think the arrogant bastard’s been holding back on us.”
Cronin felt himself relax. “Don’t worry about working that angle. I’ve got Hunter on my own radar.” He lowered his eyes back to the paper on his desk. “And if he is involved, I want to be the one to nail him.”
Seconds passed. Cronin noticed the silence and looked up. His partner’s fleshy chin now rested on his thick arms, crossed atop the seat back. Erskine was eyeing him steadily.
“Something personal about him I should know, Ed?” he asked quietly.
Cronin looked back, just as steady. Nodded slowly.
“Yeah. I don’t like being played.”
Erskine grunted, satisfied by the answer.
But Cronin knew it was only part of the truth.
2
The upscale apartment building on I Street favored a politically connected clientele. The location was ideal: Union Station and the Capitol were within walking distance. The architectural features and amenities included exposed brick walls, polished wood floors, floor-to-ceiling windows; a rooftop deck, pool, and cabana; a well-appointed gym, yoga room, theatre, and billiards parlor; plus common areas for socializing and parties.
Above all, discretion was insured. A uniformed security officer sat behind the desk in the modern lobby, greeting, announcing, and buzzing in high-profile guests. Each day’s pages of the visitor log were run through a shredder the following morning.
The security officer was a conscientious young man who had served in the Army, and he regarded his responsibility to protect the privacy of residents and their visitors as a matter of personal honor. He asked no questions and never revealed the comings and goings of the rich and powerful to anyone, not even his
wife. This evening he had been left specific instructions from Mr. Trammel, owner of Penthouse 1401.
At 1924 hours, a cab pulled up outside the glass entranceway. The back door opened, and he was surprised to see that the man who emerged was the famous Senator Carl Spencer, who was running for president. The politician walked inside quickly.
The young officer was sufficiently educated in current events to know that he didn’t like the man or his politics. But, as always, he kept his manner professional and courteous, and—from habit born of experience—didn’t let on that he even recognized him. He rose from his seat and offered a bland smile as the man approached the desk.
“May I help you, sir?”
“Yes. I am . . . Mr. Spencer. I am a guest of Mr. Trammel.” He kept his head down and his eyes darted about nervously.
“Yes, sir.” The guard made an unnecessary show of consulting his guest list. “All right, I have Mr. Trammel’s authorization right here, Mr. Spencer. He said you are to go right up and make yourself at home. There is food and wine in the kitchen . . . Here is your key card, sir. The elevator is in the corridor behind me, to the right. Take it to the fourteenth floor. The key will open 1401.”
“Thank you.” The senator reached into the pocket of his expensive, tailored overcoat and his hand emerged with a twenty-dollar bill. Holding the guard’s eyes and looking serious, he extended the money. “Here you go, young man.”
“I appreciate that, sir,” he replied, waving his hand, “but we have rules against accepting gratuities.”
“Oh.” He shoved the bill back in his pocket, looking more uneasy. “I just hope . . .”
He stopped.
The guard suddenly figured it out. This stuff happened here a lot. He had to force himself to put the smile back on his lips and a cheery tone in his voice.
“It’s quite all right, sir. Mr. Trammel left instructions that after his guests arrived, there were to be no further interruptions of the meeting. But please feel free to call down here if you need a cab or anything.”
The politician looked suddenly relieved. He smiled, showing a set of perfect teeth.
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