by J. B. Turner
Meyerstein looked across at her right-hand man. “Roy, your thoughts?”
“For me, there are echoes of the disappearance and death of military attaché Thomas Mooney in Cyprus, in 2007. If I remember correctly, his body was found a few days after he disappeared.”
Froch stared down at the papers in front of him. “But that was deemed to be suicide, wasn’t it?”
Meyerstein rubbed her eyes as if seriously sleep-deprived. “That was the official line.” Her tone was harsh with Froch, almost dismissive. Reznick could feel the tension in the room.
She looked across the table at him. “Jon, I’ll be looking for insights from you, too.”
Reznick nodded and felt all eyes on him.
Froch shook his head. “No disrespect, but how can he know anything? This isn’t his area of expertise.”
Reznick stared at Froch. He’d met the type before. Arrogant. Full of themselves. He couldn’t abide inflated egos.
Meyerstein leaned forward and fixed her gaze on Froch. “Colonel Froch, this is a joint task force and I’m taking the lead. We work together on this. Understood?”
Froch raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
“The question is: where do we go from here? Let’s open this up.” She looked at the NSA specialist at the table, who was taking notes on an iPad. “What do you think?”
The NSA guy stopped tapping on his tablet and looked up. “We’re trawling through millions of calls, emails, and instant messages as we speak, looking to get a heads-up. I’m talking real time, message boards, the lot. We’re on it. That’s what I’ve been doing, in case you’re wondering.”
“Here’s where I’m coming from,” Meyerstein said. “I think there’s a very real possibility that O’Grady has been kidnapped, or worse.”
Reznick said, “The Iranians, as most of you know, work out of the Pakistan embassy, as they don’t have their own now. That’s where I’d start looking.”
Meyerstein nodded. “Ed, you want to expand?”
“Currently, seventy-four Iranian nationals are accredited to the Interests Section of the Islamic Republic of Iran in Washington, DC. However, because the United States and Iran don’t have diplomatic relations, none of the Iranians have official diplomatic status.”
“So, their names would not be published on the State Department’s Diplomatic List?” Meyerstein asked.
“That’s right. They are, in effect, employees of the Iranian Interests Section. While they come under the umbrella of the Pakistan embassy, they maintain separate offices. The Iranians working there have permanent resident status in the US or are dual nationals, making it difficult to take any action against them. They attend cultural and social events within the Iranian community and maintain close ties to an Islamic Center in Potomac that is financed by a New York-based foundation. They also have an information section used for intelligence work. In addition, all staff members of the Interests Section hold green cards or US passports, meaning they are free to travel in the United States.”
Meyerstein stretched, stifling a yawn. The red light on her BlackBerry began to flash—perhaps an urgent email or message—and she took a few moments to check it.
“Jon, your thoughts?”
“Yeah.” Reznick looked across at the NSA specialist. “What’s electronic monitoring telling us?”
The NSA guy sighed. “I only have a team of three, right in this building, doing the traffic analysis. Basically, trawling everything that’s sent and received by—or phoned to and from—the Iranians, night and day. Encrypted, non-encrypted, language specialists, you name it. Anything flags up and we’re on it straight away. We’re tracing all the numbers called in the last forty-eight hours, but it’s wrapped up in layers of advanced encryption. It’s gonna take time.”
“Something we don’t have,” said Meyerstein.
“This might have nothing to do with the Iranians,” Reznick said. “I think we’ve got to be clear on that, too. But we can’t rule them out. Perhaps we need to think about getting a team in close, keep tabs on these Iranians. Their houses, hangouts . . .”
“Reznick, we’ve got to remember that they’re operating under the auspices of the Pakistan embassy and have surveillance detection units just as we do,” interjected Froch. “They’re not dumb. They know what to look for when it comes to observing those who’re watching them.”
“So we stay in this room and sit on our hands? Look, we’ve got to move on this. Around-the-clock surveillance is needed, and not relying solely on electronic monitoring.”
Froch shook his head. “That’s not practical.”
Stamper said, “It’s a good point Jon’s making. The political attachés and military attachés can be a priority.”
Froch cleared his throat. “We have no evidence, as it stands, that Iran is behind this. None at all.”
Reznick stared at him. “I’ve already said that.”
“We go with surveillance of the Iranians.” Meyerstein looked around. “This is going to be a twenty-four seven operation until we find O’Grady. We meet up again in less than twelve hours’ time, in this room. And I want to reiterate once again, this is strictly within the team. This investigation doesn’t exist to anyone else.”
When the meeting ended and everyone had filed out, Meyerstein pulled Reznick and Stamper aside. “Follow me.”
She led them down a long corridor. Hanging on the wall were black-and-white prints of DC monuments at night, and framed extracts from George Washington’s speeches. They took the elevator up to the top floor, then went through a series of keypad entries and along a carpeted corridor toward more doors. Meyerstein swiped a card and led them into a secure area, and to the office last on the right.
“This is where I’m based during this investigation,” she said as Reznick and Stamper followed her inside.
It was all muted beige, with a dark teak desk and a couple of brown leather sofas, and four seats lined up against the wall. A huge TV on the wall showed a live CNN broadcast of the President speaking in Detroit.
“Take a seat, guys,” she said.
Reznick and Stamper complied and sat down.
Meyerstein sat on the edge of her desk. “Firstly, Jon, very good to see you, I appreciated your input. Sorry I wasn’t able to call you directly.”
“I assume you didn’t invite me here to make up the numbers.”
Meyerstein shook her head. “Not quite. During our meeting I got an instant message from the FBI encryption guy, Special Agent Scott Liddell. His people have been looking over O’Grady’s phone records. And they think they’ve finally pulled up the last number he called before he disappeared.”
Stamper shifted in his seat. “Whose is it?”
“The phone is blocked. Now, I don’t really know any of the guys around that table. And I don’t know who I can trust. So I want the two of you to run a parallel investigation. You report only to me.”
Stamper ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “I don’t like this, Martha. The whole feel of this. Something’s wrong.”
Meyerstein nodded.
“But I also don’t feel good with the secrecy.”
“It’s just the way I want it to run. The cell phone number that O’Grady called is owned by a twenty-two-year-old resident of Georgetown, Caroline Lieber. Does the name mean anything to you?”
Stamper shook his head.
“Ms. Lieber is the youngest daughter of Jack Lieber, real estate tycoon. You know anything about Jack Lieber?”
Reznick and Stamper both shrugged.
“Jack Lieber is the President’s single biggest donor in New York City. And his daughter is a former intern at the White House.”
Reznick felt his heart rate hike up a notch. “OK, we’ve now got something to work with. We need to get into her life, big time.”
Three
The morning sun was throwing long shadows across the road as the SUV with Reznick, Stamper and the Feds inside edged along a leafy street in the Georgetown ar
ea of Washington, DC. The temperature on the dashboard showed it was 95 degrees. Smart houses and upscale cars lined either side, the sidewalks bustling with life.
They took a right onto Volta Place Northwest and pulled up outside an elegant townhouse. An American flag flew from the second floor, and fluttered in the light breeze.
Reznick got out first and Stamper followed. Reznick felt the sweat running down his back within seconds of stepping out of the air-conditioned vehicle and into the stifling heat.
“Damn, it’s hot,” Stamper said. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and straightened his tie. “OK, let me do the talking.”
“Fine with me,” Reznick said as they climbed the outside steps.
Stamper gave three hard knocks on the door and cleared his throat, looking around as he waited for an answer. “Apparently she lives here with three other female students from Georgetown.”
Reznick nodded but said nothing. He already felt frustrated at the by-the-book approach.
Stamper knocked again, this time five times, and rang the bell repeatedly.
“Who is it?” a tentative female voice said from behind the locked door.
“FBI, ma’am. Open up.”
“What’s it about?”
“Can you let us in, ma’am? We need to speak to Caroline Lieber.”
“She’s not here.”
Stamper rolled his eyes. “Ma’am, can you please open up? We need to speak to you then, if she’s not here.”
“Look, I don’t know who you guys are. I’d prefer not to open up the door to strangers.”
“We’re the FBI, ma’am.” He held up his ID to the peephole. “See for yourself.”
“Mr. Stamper, how can I be sure it’s genuine?”
Stamper held up the court papers. “These state that we have the authority to gain entry to this property and interview Ms. Lieber or the occupants. This is a court order, ma’am. If you continue to obstruct us, we’ll be forced to break down the door to gain entry. So, can you please open up so we can speak to you inside?”
A long delay, then the chain could be heard sliding across, the locks turned, and the door cracked open. A girl with sunken eyes and messy blonde hair pulled the cord of her pink dressing gown tight around her waist. It looked like last night’s makeup was still on her face, dark shadows under her eyes.
Stamper showed his badge again. “Are you satisfied we’re FBI, ma’am?”
The girl studied the badge for a few moments before running a hand through her disheveled hair. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to take any chances. Please come in.” She opened the door wide, and Stamper and Reznick followed her down the hall to a brightly lit kitchen.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Stamper said. “Are you alone here?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where Ms. Lieber is?”
The girl shrugged. “I don’t know. She might be staying with a friend from class.”
“So you don’t know for sure?”
The girl shrugged. “Look, I don’t know much about Caroline. What’s this about?”
“Tell me, when’s the last time you spoke to Caroline?”
“Is she OK?”
“Please answer the question.”
“Caroline? I spoke to her yesterday morning.”
“Is there anyone she’s close to or confides in?”
“She’s from New York City, so her real close friends are all based there. She keeps to herself, really.”
Stamper smiled. “You mind if we take a look around?”
“Actually, I do.”
“Oh, why’s that?”
“It’s just that . . . well, the lease is in Caroline’s name. I just feel it would be better if she was here before you go through the house.”
“We have a warrant to search the house, if necessary.”
The girl flushed crimson and closed her eyes. “It’s just that . . .”
“Are you all right, ma’am?” Stamper asked. “Do you feel uncomfortable because we’re going to do the search and you’re all alone in the house, is that it?”
The girl grimaced. “It’s just that . . . I’d rather you didn’t.”
The sound of a floorboard creaking above them.
Reznick was up the stairs before Stamper could speak. A skinny guy was heading across the landing toward the bathroom. “Don’t move, son!”
The kid froze.
Reznick grabbed him by the collar and pulled him downstairs. The kid was trembling.
“Thought you were alone?” Reznick asked, staring at the girl.
She bit her lower lip. “He’s not supposed to be staying over.”
Reznick turned to him. “Empty your pockets.”
The kid had tears in his eyes as he handed over a cube of hashish from his back pocket.
“Gonna flush it away, were you?”
“Man, it’s not mine.”
Reznick stepped forward. “I’m going to pat you down. You don’t have any sharp objects in your pockets, do you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Because if you do, and I get cut, you’re gonna be in a shitload of trouble. No syringes or knives?”
“Absolutely not.”
“I hope not, for your sake.” Reznick patted him down and emptied out the kid’s other pockets. “He’s clean.”
Stamper pointed to the living room. “Let’s take a seat in there.” The girl and the kid both nodded and they went through, sitting down on a large, black leather sofa. Stamper sat down opposite them, but Reznick stayed standing, arms folded, by the door.
“OK, here’s how it’s going to work,” Stamper said, leaning forward, hands clasped. “You cooperate with us, and we’re all gonna get along just fine. Now, first things first, where’s Caroline’s room?”
The girl said, “First floor on the right.”
Reznick headed up there and did a cursory search. The bedroom was tidy and smelled fresh, with white roses in a vase by the window. Two small pink teddies sat atop the white comforter on the queen-sized bed. The large desk had yellow sticky notes plastered all over it, probably for essays she had to write. A floor-to-ceiling bookcase with hundreds of books: Jane Austen, Henry James, Plato, biographies of Churchill, George W. Bush, and Condoleezza Rice, and some P.J. O’Rourke. He opened up the closet and saw her clothes were neatly hung up and her shoes laid out on the floor. He rifled through a bedside cabinet. Silk panties, bras, and God knows what.
He headed downstairs. “She’s a student, right?”
The girl nodded. “Politics, yeah.”
“So where’s the laptop, iPad, all that jazz?”
The girl bit her lower lip. “Her iPhone is on her day and night, and I know she also has a MacBook Pro up in her room. Did you miss it?”
Reznick shook his head. “It’s not there.”
“That’s weird. It was there yesterday morning when she left, because she asked me to switch it off. She left in a hurry. She said she’d be back sometime this afternoon.”
The young man cleared his throat. “Do you mind me asking what this is about?”
Reznick pointed at him. “Speak when you are spoken to.”
Stamper looked at the girl. “What time did she leave?”
“Around nine. I think she was running late. It was just before I left for class.”
“When did you return here?”
“I returned alone just after five yesterday.”
“Was the computer still there?”
“I don’t know—I didn’t check.”
“So what did you do when you got home?”
“Made some dinner for us, and Matt came around just after nine with a bottle of wine.”
Stamper blew out his cheeks and shifted in his seat. “Tell me everything I need to know about Caroline Lieber. Is it normal for her to stay over somewhere with a friend?”
“Now and again, sure.”
“Who does she stay with?”
The girl frowned and shrugged. �
�I don’t know. Like I said, I don’t think we’re that close.”
“Now, this is very important. Is there anything over the last week or so that’s happened which you thought was strange or Caroline thought was odd? Anything unusual. What about any guy she’s seeing? A guy from her class, maybe?”
The young man ran his hands through his hair. “Look, I don’t see what this has got to do with me.”
Stamper stared down the kid. “Here’s a bit of advice. When the Feds turn up and you get caught with some hash in your possession, you have some explaining to do. Simple possession of a controlled substance comes with a maximum penalty for a first conviction of a hundred and eighty days in jail, not to mention a thousand-dollar fine. However, you shut up and I could forget I saw your little stash. You understand what I’m saying?”
The girl took the boy’s hand, tears in her eyes. “We hear what you’re saying.” She closed her eyes as if racking her brain. “There was a guy.”
Stamper nodded.
“Yeah, couple nights ago, a guy called asking for Caroline. An older-sounding guy.”
“A guy called? Did he have a name?”
“I answered the phone. He didn’t give a name. He said he wanted to speak to Caroline urgently.”
“OK . . .”
“Caroline said that he was an old creep and was pestering her. She told me to tell him she wasn’t home. He hung up.”
Reznick wondered if this was O’Grady making contact with Caroline Lieber. He exchanged a quick glance with Stamper, who nodded, obviously getting the link.
“Did the guy say anything else?” Stamper asked.
“He just said it was urgent that Caroline speak to him . . . he had some information for her.”
“What kind of information?”
“He didn’t say.”
“And the guy didn’t give his name?”
“No. I’ve told you everything.” The girl began to sob.
“Can you describe his voice?”
She dabbed her eyes. “It was slow, very deliberate, as if he was being careful what he was saying.”
Stamper smiled, as if trying to reassure her. “You’re really helping us. Just a couple more questions.”
The girl sighed.
“Did Caroline ever talk to you about her internship last summer?”