by J. B. Turner
Chisholm tried to appear disinterested, scratching his chin. “Russian, eh?”
“Yup.”
“Did he talk about this girl?”
“Only the once. They were planning to get engaged but she died. He wouldn’t elaborate. But I could sense a sadness there.”
“What about a name? Can you remember the girl’s name?”
“Kristina, I think.”
Twenty-Nine
A couple of hours later, Reznick and Chisholm were at a conference table at the National Counterterrorism Center to talk to the rest of the special access group via video link.
Chairing the meeting with the Pentagon and three White House national security special advisors was Lieutenant General Black, who took off his spectacles and shrugged.
“Hard to know where to start.”
Black looked at the huge screens showing the interested and tense-looking faces at the Pentagon and in the Situation Room at the White House. “If it’s OK with you guys, I’ll let Sam Chisholm give the update.”
A Pentagon intelligence specialist called James McCormack said, “That’s fine. Go right ahead, Sam.”
Chisholm blew out his cheeks and looked at the screen, glancing quickly at the notes in front of him. “OK, people, anyone want to add anything, jump in. Here’s what I know.”
Over the next fifteen minutes, he outlined the revelations about Ford’s latest girlfriend Hilary Stapleton, and the possibility that Ford’s previous girlfriend was a Russian called Kristina. They listened in rapt silence, all taking notes. When he had finished, he opened it up.
Black looked at Reznick. “What are we missing here, Jon? I’ve got FBI Counterterrorism, the NSA, the CIA, Homeland Security, and every goddamn expert at the Pentagon scratching their heads on this.” He glanced at the screens. “Jon is part of our team and has been working closely on this from day one.”
A few nods.
“I’m thinking a cell,” Reznick said. “Government backing.”
A few murmurs from those in the White House Situation Room.
“What about Ford?” Black said. “I think it would be fair to say that there are some within the intelligence community who are not as convinced on Ford as you are.”
“Well, there are strong indications of loose Islamic connections—perhaps cutouts—to Ford. Why is that?” Reznick shrugged. “Who knows? Let’s chase down the leads—that’s what I would do. Was there a former Russian girlfriend? Also, what about the missing three months?”
Black rubbed his eyes and looked at Stamper. “Are we still waiting for details of Ford’s past?”
“Yes, we are. We’re still filling in the blanks.”
Reznick said, “Roy, what’s taking so long?”
Stamper’s gaze fixed on Reznick, who returned the look. “The FBI has allocated major resources to this investigation, and Ford is not the only avenue we are pursuing.”
“Didn’t Assistant Director Meyerstein ask for this forty-eight hours ago?”
A long silence. “Yes, she did. As I said, we’re still working on it. Do you know how many aid agencies and government agencies provide medical assistance during natural disasters, wars, and other emergencies?”
Reznick shook his head.
“Hundreds. And we’re checking and rechecking incomplete records as far back as two decades ago to see where Ford fits into this.”
Reznick sighed.
“You don’t look satisfied with the answer, Reznick.”
“I’m not.”
Stamper’s face flushed. “Look, I don’t take orders from you, Reznick. Are you clear on that?”
“This isn’t about you, Roy. This is about this goddamn investigation. It’s about the disappearance and murder of O’Grady. It’s about a critically injured FBI special agent, Morales, a dead Islamic convert, his goddamn sister in the East Village. It’s about a missing college student. It’s about who took down your boss in broad daylight. And it’s about trying to piece this jigsaw together. You want me to go on?”
“Who the hell do you think you are, coming in here, telling me what I should or shouldn’t be doing?”
Black held up his hand to restore order. “OK, let’s take this down a notch.”
He looked at Stamper, who had flushed a bright red. “It’s true that you don’t answer to Jon Reznick. But he was only asking a simple question. He’s part of this team in an advisory role.”
Stamper shook his head, his lip curling into a sneer. “In answer to your question, we should get something within the next twenty-four hours. There’s a hole in Ford’s timeline in the 2000s, a period of three months spent away from the hospital in the US we can’t account for. Once we know that, I can give the group what it’s looking for.”
Reznick nodded. “Appreciate that.”
An awkward silence followed amid the rustling of papers.
“If we can leave Ford aside for a moment,” Chisholm said, “I think it’s worth noting that encrypted chatter on some hardcore, extreme-right, white-militia blogs is talking about bombing a synagogue on the Upper East Side. And also messages from Oregon and Michigan militias talking about Jewish blood flowing down Fifth Avenue.”
A hand raised on the Pentagon feed. “Can I jump in, General Black?”
“Sure.”
“Lieutenant Colonel Jack Anderson. I can confirm that Fort Meade has highlighted numerous channels going through several militias as well. We’re working closely with Sam’s team to track them down.”
Black said, “As it stands, we have Islamists, militia, and a DC surgeon in our field of vision. It doesn’t take an expert to see that something isn’t adding up.”
Chisholm piped up. “You’re forgetting the Russians. What the hell are they doing? I just don’t get it.”
Reznick said, “I think they’re proxies. Would they be dumb enough to use militias or Islamists to further their cause?”
McCormack put up his hand. “When it comes to Moscow, you can never rule anything in or out. You want me to remind you about Anna Chapman and those nice Russians living as American suburbanites? That was deep cover.”
Black nodded. “Everyone around this table knows the Russians like to play the long game.”
McCormack said, “I’ll tell you what. This is a new Cold War. They’re wanting to get us off balance. Islamists, militias, maybe they’re the proxies. But the fingerprints of Moscow can’t be erased.”
Black interjected, “Look, I think we’re going in circles. The question that I don’t think we’ve really addressed is: what’s the endgame for whoever is pulling the strings? Is there a target? Is there a mission?”
McCormack spoke first. “The anniversary of nine eleven is fast approaching. That’s a clear red flag. And we’ll have a lot of important people in New York on that day.”
“Like who?” Reznick asked.
“The commander in chief himself, no less,” Chisholm said, “But we have no indication as to who or what the target is.”
A silence opened up for a few minutes.
“We’re wondering if Ford was turned while overseas,” McCormack said.
Black pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sam, what is the FBI saying to this?”
Chisholm flicked through some briefing papers before looking across the table at Black. “We concur with the 9/11 timeline analysis. The problem is Ford. We just can’t get a handle on where he fits in. Does he have a hatred for the US government? Has he been radicalized? Ethiopia? Venezuela? Is he on the Moscow payroll? He’s worked in the Third World: Nicaragua, across Latin America, Venezuela.”
The red light on Chisholm’s BlackBerry—sitting on the table in front of him—began flashing. He picked it up and scanned the incoming message.
“Any updates for us, Sam?” said Black.
Chisholm stared at the message for a few moments before he looked up. “That was the fingerprint guy at Port Mortuary in Delaware. There’s been a development in regard to identifying the two Russians.”
> Thirty
The military mortuary in Delaware was run under the auspices of the Department of Defense and was one of the biggest in the world. Reznick had visited once before, when a Delta buddy was killed in Iraq. The mother wanted him to be there to ensure everything was above board. He’d never felt so empty in his life. He remembered when the boy, because that’s what he had been, arrived in the aluminum transfer case, packed in ice inside a large freezer, along with a dozen other soldiers who’d been killed on duty.
Port Mortuary, officially called the Charles C. Carson Center for Mortuary Affairs, was where they’d brought the men and women killed on 9/11 at the Pentagon for processing. His own wife, who died on 9/11, had been turned to dust. No body for him. No closure.
His mind flashed back to the wailing of relatives as their dead loved ones arrived home from Iraq. Mothers and fathers sobbing, hugging each other for comfort. The crying echoing around the building as they waited.
Reznick was on edge as he followed Chisholm. They were ushered through an atrium with plants and a fountain. A motto on the stone wall read Dignity, Honor, and Respect, above a commemoration of those soldiers who had fallen in wars and terrorist attacks in modern American history.
The list seemed to go on forever. Vietnam: 21,693 deceased . . . Mass Suicide, Peoples Temple in Guyana: 913 deceased . . . Terrorist Bombing, Marine Headquarters in Beirut, Lebanon: 237 deceased . . . Operation Iraqi Freedom: 3,431 dead or missing in action.
He looked at two doors, one labeled Counseling and the other Meditation. He wondered which one a bereaved family was to choose.
They were led down a series of corridors until they got to the director’s office. The door was open.
James Mulcahy was standing, stern-faced. He was tall, barrel-chested, with hair shaved to the bone. He wore a navy polo shirt and cargo pants. He stepped forward and shook their hands. “I believe one of your fingerprint specialists has already been in touch,” he said.
Chisholm nodded.
Mulcahy shut the door before sitting down behind his large mahogany desk. “Look, I’m really sorry about this, but I’m afraid this journey has been a bit premature. Take a seat, guys.”
Reznick and Chisholm sat down as Mulcahy adjusted the framed picture of his family on his desk.
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow,” Chisholm said.
Mulcahy sighed, huge hands spread out on his desk. “The fingerprint specialist who is one of your guys is quite new here. And by new, I mean wet behind the ears. A matter of days. He doesn’t understand the protocols that exist. These protocols ensure that every process is done logically, with regard to the needs of the dead soldier’s families taking precedence over everything.”
Chisholm scratched the back of his head, obviously getting frustrated. “Of course, I appreciate there are protocols, that’s only right. But I was told there had been an important development in the identification of the two bodies brought in from New York. It’s vitally important that they are identified as soon as possible.”
Mulcahy’s eyes fixed on Reznick for a few moments. Reznick met his gaze and Mulcahy looked away. “Firstly, like I said, the fingerprint guy should not have contacted you directly. Secondly, the autopsies haven’t even been started.”
“Hang on, are you kidding me? They’ve been here nearly forty-eight hours.”
“I appreciate that. But we have other priorities. A planeload of dead Marines—thirteen, to be precise. Blown up by a rogue Afghan army officer. That takes precedence, I’m afraid.”
Chisholm leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs. “Listen, I need these bodies identified. You can do it now.”
“I don’t think you understand how it works. We don’t have to answer to the FBI. We answer to the parents and loved ones of the brave men and women who serve this country. The procedures are very detailed.”
“Listen again. We’re running a sensitive investigation that has implications for national security. And we need to find out about the two bodies which were brought in here.”
“They’ll be dealt with like all the bodies that arrive here. They carry the ‘believed to be’ status, meaning identity can be confirmed only here.”
Reznick knew from bitter personal experience that all dead soldiers returned to Dover were tagged “believed to be” until their identity could be confirmed officially after a series of exhaustive forensic tests.
Chisholm said, “I appreciate that, but—”
“I don’t know if you do. The fingerprints will have to be examined, dental and full-body X-rays carried out, DNA samples taken. Only then can the body on the table officially be given a name and formally identified.”
“I hear what you’re saying. But I want to speak to your fingerprint guy about what he knows.”
“Look, he jumped the gun. I can’t just go bumping two unknown bodies up ahead of our guys because you’re running some investigation.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? Are you saying we’ve come all this way—”
Reznick shifted in his seat, glad Chisholm had shown his displeasure.
Mulcahy put up his hand. “I run this place, not you. Do you understand?”
“You want me to go above your head on this? Do you want me to call up the Office of Special Counsel and report what you’re saying? Do you want them to know that you’re hampering a critical investigation which has, as I’ll say again, national security implications?”
Mulcahy leaned forward. “Don’t threaten me. I answer to the US Air Force and the Department of Defense. We do things our way, with respect.”
Chisholm took a moment to compose himself. “Maybe I’m not making myself clear. While I understand that the autopsies have not been done, I would nevertheless like to speak to the fingerprint specialist who contacted us about developments. Now, I don’t think that’s asking too much, is it?”
Mulcahy leaned back in his seat and shook his head. “Look, I deal with a lot of requests, from pathologists and anthropologists, forensic photographers, and the Air Force Office of Special Investigations, all wanting priority access or information there and then, and it’s just not possible. What you’re asking for flies in the face of what we do. All I can say is that I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey, but as soon as we’re in a position to conduct the full autopsies, including fingerprint analysis, and have the results, we’ll let your team know.” He fixed his gaze on Reznick. “It’s protocol. First, last, everything.”
Reznick sighed and slowly stood up. He stared down at Mulcahy. “Fuck your protocol, you desk jockey. We need to speak to your fingerprint guy. Right fucking now.”
A sneer crossed Mulcahy’s large face. “Are you threatening me, son?”
Reznick stepped forward and grabbed Mulcahy by the throat, pressing hard against the carotid artery. “Listen, you fat fuck, this is how it’s going to work. You’re going to give us access now, or you won’t be able to swallow for a month.” He squeezed tight for a couple of seconds and Mulcahy flushed, his teeth clenched with pain. “Am I making myself clear?”
Mulcahy struggled and gasped for breath.
Reznick held tight, then slowly released his grip. “So, I’ll ask again. Can we see the fingerprint guy?”
Mulcahy gulped in air as Reznick held his throat. He nodded furiously.
“Is that a yes?”
“He’s in his office,” Mulcahy croaked. “By the water cooler.”
Reznick turned and looked at Chisholm, who was nodding his head. “Thank you so much for your help, Mr. Mulcahy.”
It was a long walk.
Chisholm spoke first. “That was out of line.”
“He was out of line.”
“That’s not how I operate, Reznick. Do you understand?”
“Absolutely.”
“Are we clear?”
“It won’t happen again.”
They took a right and walked down a long corridor until they reached a cubby-hole office by a water cooler. The door was open, and
sitting at the desk was a baby-faced, dark-haired kid wearing a navy suit, white shirt, pale-blue tie, and shiny black shoes. He looked twenty-five, if that.
Chisholm approached the doorway. “Are you the fingerprint guy?”
“Sir, Special Agent Lee Horowitz,” he said. “I’m from the Bureau but assigned to Port Mortuary.”
Horowitz sprang out of his chair and offered his hand.
Chisholm shook his hand and smiled at the kid. “You mind if we come in and take a seat, son?”
Horowitz flushed crimson and pointed to the chair opposite his desk. “Please, but I only have two chairs.”
Chisholm sat down. Reznick stood and leaned just inside the door, arms crossed.
The young agent sat down. “I’m sorry, I believe I’ve been a bit presumptuous contacting you guys about identification of the two gunshot victims from New York.”
“We’ve smoothed it over with the director,” Chisholm said. “You called us, Horowitz. You said there were developments. We’re all ears, son.”
Horowitz took a deep breath. “I had started preliminary work on the hands—photographing them, checking the fingerprints—before we got the dead Marines in from Afghanistan. That became a priority.”
“So, let me get this straight. You had started work, but then this had to be stopped until after the autopsies and identification of the Marines?”
“Absolutely. It was only a few minutes I spent on them, but I saw similarities on the thumbs and forefingers of both victims.”
“What kind of similarities?”
Horowitz turned his laptop around and tapped a couple of keys. Color close-ups of a male index finger appeared on the screen. “Look really close. You see it?”
Reznick saw a wafer-thin, gelatin-like sliver covering the small area where a fingerprint would be taken. “Shit.”
“Indeed. I’ve still to do the analysis, but as a preliminary assessment, I would say that this is the residue from an attempt to thwart fingerprint-detection technology. It might be glycerin, but it might be a glycerin–gelatin hybrid.”