“Damn!”
“Yeah. Well, maybe we’ll have a chance to talk about that tonight.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re not going to be at the White House?”
“No, ma’am. I know Secretary Hall will be there, but I won’t.”
“Okay. Well, I will ask some discreet questions about that problem, and if I come up with anything I’ll let you know.”
“I would very much appreciate that.”
“Talk to you later, Charley,” the secretary of state said and hung up.
Castillo put the handset back in its cradle.
“Priority one is to get that money out of Yung’s account and into mine,” he said. “And to do that, I have to have the numbers of my new account and somebody has to tell me how to move money around in an offshore bank.”
“Who has the numbers?” Agnes asked.
“Otto Görner at the Tages Zeitung. More probably Frau Schröder.”
“Would they give them to me if I called?”
“Probably not now, but after I call them this time they will. How do I dial an international number?”
“If you know it,” Agnes said, “punch it in. After you give it to me.”
Transferring nearly sixteen million dollars between two accounts in the Liechtensteinische Landesbank in the Cayman Islands proved to be even more difficult and time-consuming than Charley thought it would be.
Since no one wanted to be out of the office when yet another call involving their furnishing of just one more detail came from either Fulda or the Cayman Islands, luncheon was hamburgers from Wendy’s. Special Agent Yung, who was apparently willing to make any sacrifice required to get the money out of his account, volunteered to go get them.
Yung’s relief when, shortly after two P.M., the Liechtensteinische Landesbank reported that the funds were now in the account of Karl W. von und zu Gossinger—and thus out of his account—was palpable but short lived.
Just about as soon as Castillo had hung up, Miller wondered aloud—Castillo thought he was probably doing it on purpose; he knew Miller didn’t like Yung—what the boys at Fort Meade were going to do with their intercepts of the many telephone calls they had made.
Fort Meade, Maryland, near Washington, houses the National Security Agency, the very secretive unit that “intercepts” telephone conversations and other electronic transmission of data or text, such as e-mails.
“You know how that works, don’t you, Yung?” Miller asked.
“I have a general idea, of course,” Yung said.
“Well, in simple terms, what they do is record practically everything coming out of Washington,” Miller began. “Then they run what they’ve recorded though high-speed filters looking for words or names or phrases in which there is interest. With all the interest in money laundering, as you of all people should know, the Liechtensteinische Landesbank is sure to be one of those phrases. And so is ‘millions of dollars.’
“So by now, there’s probably at least one NSA analyst sitting over there wondering whether that transfer was simply a legitimate transfer or whether some drug lord or raghead is making financial transactions inimical to the interests of the United States. I don’t think the IRS is on their distribution list, but I know Langley and the FBI are.”
Castillo restrained a smile as Yung’s face reflected the implications for him of what Miller was saying.
And then, suddenly, Castillo realized that what had started as a joke was potentially a serious problem.
“Which means we’re going to have to do something and right now,” he said, “before somebody starts a file on this.”
Miller misread him. He thought Castillo had decided to add to Yung’s discomfiture.
“Charley, you know as well as I do that once those NSA people latch on to something, they’re like dogs with a meaty bone,” Miller said.
“Agnes,” Castillo said, “I want Yung on the next plane to Buenos Aires.”
“You mean today?” Yung asked.
“I mean in an hour, if that’s when the next plane leaves.”
“What am I going to do in Buenos Aires?”
“In Montevideo, you are going to make sure that whatever information the embassy has turned up there about recent wire transfers out of the accounts of Señor Jean-Paul Bertrand is not reported to the State Department and that they don’t turn up anything more that will be reported.”
“Good God, you go to prison for destroying evidence!” Yung said.
“You’re not going to destroy evidence,” Castillo said. “You’re going to collect that evidence and get it to Mr. Forbison, who will establish and maintain a classified file on that money from step one.”
He leaned forward in the high-backed judge’s chair and pulled the red telephone to him.
“Which of these buttons is Natalie Cohen’s?” he asked, looking at Mr. Forbison.
“Five,” she said.
He pushed the fifth button.
“Castillo, Madam Secretary,” he said. “Can you give me a moment?”
Castillo explained the situation, then listened to her thoughts.
“Thank you very much, Madam Secretary. I think this will handle the problem. I’ll keep you advised,” Castillo said.
He put the handset back in the cradle and looked at Special Agent Yung.
“You should have picked up on that, Yung,” Castillo said. “But, in case you didn’t, the secretary of state will message the ambassador in Montevideo that she is dispatching an FBI agent with special knowledge of the situation—you—down there to investigate the financial affairs of Mr. Lorimer/Bertrand, that they are to turn over to you whatever they have developed so far, and that you will make your report directly to her.”
“Okay,” Yung said.
“You will make two reports,” Castillo said.
“Two?”
Castillo nodded.
“One will be a complete report of everything you know, what the other FBI guys know, and the details of the wire transfers of the money from his account to yours. You will take that one, by hand, to the embassy in Buenos Aires, and give it to Alex Darby, who will be expecting it and who will send it to Mr. Forbison in a diplomatic pouch. That will take a day longer, but we won’t get involved with encryption.”
“I don’t understand that, Charley,” Mr. Forbison said. “Why not encrypt it?”
“Whenever you encrypt anything, two more people, the encrypt or and the decrypt or, are in on the secret.”
“I never thought about that,” she said. “You don’t trust cryptographers?”
“I trust them more than most people I know. I’m just being careful.”
When she nodded her understanding, he turned back to Yung.
“The second report will include what the other FBI guys down there have found out and a sanitized version of what you know. No details of how much money was in those accounts before we made the transfers, just how much we left in them. And, of course, no mention of the wire transfers. This one you will give to the ambassador in Montevideo, requesting that he have it encrypted and transmitted to the secretary of state. Got it?”
“You’re asking me to officially submit a report I know to be dishonest. I’m not sure I can do that.”
“What I am ordering you to do is submit a report less certain details that are classified Top Secret Presidential. There’s a difference. There was no reason for the ambassador to be told about the Finding and he has not been told. He does not have the Need to Know about that money or what we have done with it.”
“I was always taught that the ambassador has the right to know what any agency of the U.S. government is doing in his country.”
“Try to understand this, Yung. It would be a violation of the law for you to pass information to the ambassador that he is not entitled to have because he doesn’t have the proper security clearance. There are only two people who can give him that clearance: the President and me. The President has not done so and
I can’t see any good reason that I should.” He paused and then asked, “Are you going to do this, Yung, or not?”
Yung didn’t reply for thirty seconds, which seemed much longer.
“When you put it that way…” he began, then paused a moment. “You have to understand I’ve just never had any experience with…this sort of business.”
“Are you going to do it or not?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
“I don’t have any idea what kind of an oath you FBI people take, but the oath an officer takes when he is commissioned has a phrase in it: ‘without any mental reservations whatsoever.’ Are you harboring any mental reservations?”
Yung cocked his head as he thought that over, then shook his head and said, “No, I guess I’m not.”
“Okay, we’ll be in touch. I’ll probably see you down there.”
“Come with me,” Agnes said to Yung, “and we’ll see what we can do with the travel agency.” Then she looked at Castillo. “I don’t know what else you have planned for right now, but Tom McGuire and Jack Britton are waiting to see you.”
Castillo waved as a signal for her to send them in. They came in immediately.
Supervisory Special Agent Thomas McGuire of the Secret Service was a large, red-haired Irishman in his forties. Until the reorganization following 9/11, the Secret Service had been under the Treasury Department. He and Supervisory Special Agent Joel Isaacson had been assigned to the Presidential Protection Detail.
When the Secret Service had been assigned to the Department of Homeland Security, McGuire and Isaacson became the first members of the secretary’s protection detail. And when McGuire had learned of the Presidential Finding and the formation of the Office of Organizational Analysis, he had gone to Secretary Hall—who was now the de facto head of the Secret Service—and asked that he be assigned to it.
“I’m a cop at heart, boss,” he’d said. “It looks to me like Charley is going to need somebody like me, and you don’t really need both Joel and me.”
Secret Service Special Agent Jack Britton, a tall black man with sharp features, was new to the Secret Service. He had been a Philadelphia Police Department detective assigned to the Counterterrorism Bureau. Castillo and Miller had met him while trying to find the stolen 727. The first time they spoke, Britton had “come in” from his undercover assignment—keeping track of what he, political correctness be damned, called the AAL, which stood for “African American Lunatics.”
He had been wearing a scraggly beard, a dark blue robe, sandals, had his hair braided with beads, and was known to his brother Muslims in Philadelphia’s Aari-Teg mosque as Ali Abid Ar-Raziq.
Impressed with Britton for many things, including his courage and dedication as well as his intimate knowledge of the Muslim world in the United States—both bona fide and AAL—Isaacson had recruited him for the Secret Service, together with another Philadelphia Police Department officer, Sergeant Elizabeth Schneider, of the Intelligence and Organized Crime unit.
Isaacson hadn’t been thinking of the Office of the Secretary of Homeland Security, and certainly neither of them working with or for C. G. Castillo. He had recruited Britton and Schneider for the Secret Service, knowing of twenty places around the country that could really use Britton’s talents and thinking of Betty Schneider as a likely candidate for duty on one of the protection details.
That hadn’t happened. Both had just about completed Secret Service training when Mr. Elizabeth Masterson had been kidnapped. Castillo had had Britton and Schneider flown to Buenos Aires to assist in the investigation of the kidnapping and murders.
“Parties unknown” had ambushed the embassy car taking Special Agent Schneider from the Masterson home, killing the Marine driver and seriously wounding Schneider.
Once the Presidential Finding had been made, it had simply been assumed that Britton was assigned to the Office of Organizational Analysis and that when Special Agent Schneider recovered from her wounds and returned to duty she would be, too.
“It’s all right this time,” Castillo greeted McGuire and Britton, “but when you come to the throne room in the future please take off your shoes and wear white gloves.”
Miller and McGuire laughed.
“I’m impressed, Charley,” McGuire said.
Britton didn’t say anything, and his smile was strained.
I wonder what’s the matter with him? Castillo thought.
“I don’t know, Jack,” Castillo said. “Now that I think about it, you really didn’t look so bad in your blue robe and the beads in your hair.”
That got another chuckle from McGuire and Miller.
“I’d really like to see you in private, Charley,” Britton said. “Why don’t I come back in ten minutes?”
He wants a favor. Madam Britton wants him to spend a little time at home. Maybe somebody is sick. Maybe somebody at the school wants a real cop for a teacher and he doesn’t want that.
“Something personal, Jack?” Castillo asked.
Britton visibly thought that over before replying, “Yeah, in a way. But, no, not really personal.”
“Something to do with what’s going on here?”
Britton nodded.
What the hell doesn’t he want Miller and McGuire to hear?
I can’t have that.
“Jack, let me tell you how we’re going to work around here,” Castillo said. “Or how we’re not going to work. Around here, I don’t want anyone to be in the dark about anything that’s going on.”
He swept his hand to indicate he meant everybody in the office, then added, “And that includes Mr. Forbison. I can’t see how we can work any other way.”
“Permission to speak, sir?” Miller asked.
Now, what the hell is the matter with him?
“If you’re being clever, Dick, now is not the time,” Castillo said.
“I’m asking if you’re open to a comment or a question?”
“As kit.”
“Does ‘anyone’ include Special Agent David William Yung, Jr.?” Miller asked, then looked at McGuire and explained, “When Charley told him he was sending him to Uruguay to keep the details of Lorimer’s bank accounts from becoming public knowledge, Yung had to think it over carefully.”
“Oh, shit!” McGuire said. “And that’s not the first time he’s had ‘reservations, ’ is it?”
“Say it out loud, Dick,” Castillo said.
“I think it’s only a matter of time before his conscience overwhelms him about the ‘irregular’ things you’re having him do and/or he really gets homesick for the purity of the FBI and decides to come clean,” Miller said.
He let that sink in, then finished, “And the more he knows, the more he will have to tell.”
“He’s right, Charley,” McGuire said. “There’s a Puritan streak in the FBI. They like to hire pure people. They start working on them at Quantico that the book is holy, that they have to go by it, and they keep it up afterward. Even before Dick brought it up, I wondered if Yung belonged in here. I’d say send him back to the FBI, but that would remind him even more that we are ignoring the book and he already knows too much to take the risk that he would confess all.”
“So, me sending him down there was a mistake?” Castillo asked.
“Not a mistake but risky,” McGuire said. “And who else could you have sent?”
“Well, I guess the thing to do is bring him back and sit on him after he makes sure that what we’ve done with Lorimer’s money doesn’t get out,” Castillo said. “The only comment I have is that I agree that Yung is…what? Highly moral? What’s wrong with that? And I think he would love nothing better than to go to somebody in the FBI and tell them what’s going on around here. But it is that morality that keeps him from doing that.”
“Run that past me again,” Miller said.
“You were here, Dick. I asked him if he had any mental reservations and he said—after thinking about it—that he didn’t. I think he meant that.”
�
��Keep your fingers crossed, Charley,” Miller said, doubtfully.
“But you’re right. We can’t afford to have him in the loop,” Castillo said. “We’ll tell him as little as possible.” He turned to Britton. “You’re in the loop, Jack. We all need to know what you have to say.”
Britton shrugged, then said, “Okay. This is one of those damned if you do, damned if you don’t things. I heard something in Philadelphia that is probably about as far off the wall as anything ever gets, that logic tells me to dismiss but which I thought I should pass on to you.”
“Let’s have it,” Castillo said.
“I went to see Sy Fillmore in the hospital while I was there. I got it from him.”
“Who’s he?
“A counterterrorism detective. He was doing what I used to do. He went around the bend and they’ve got him in the loony bin in Friends Hospital on Roosevelt Boulevard. So my source is somebody they’re keeping in a padded room.”
“What did he have to say?”
“The brothers in his mosque believe they are about to get their hands on a nuclear bomb.”
“That does sound a little incredible,” Miller said. “Where are they going to get it?”
Britton shrugged. “He didn’t know. What he did know was they have just bought a farm in Durham.”
“North Carolina?” McGuire asked.
“Pennsylvania,” Britton replied. “Bucks County. Upper end of the county. A couple of miles off the Delaware River. The reason they bought the place is because of the old iron mines on it.”
“Iron mines?”
“They’re going to use them as bomb shelters when the nuclear bomb takes out Philadelphia. They’re stocking them with food, etcetera.”
“Tell me about the iron mines,” McGuire said.
“Well, they’ve been there forever,” Britton said. “You remember when Washington crossed the Delaware?”
“I’ve heard about it. I’m not quite that old,” McGuire said.
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