by C. W. Saari
Germaine lived with her mother, had never married, and was rumored never to have had a date. Most of the office considered her intense, high-strung, and opinionated. But one undisputed thing about her was that she knew her job and was a damn fine analyst. For some reason, she considered Bannister her best friend in the office. It might be because he flirted with her. More likely it was because he appreciated her work and always sent her a short note thanking her for her effort on a case.
Holding a sheaf of papers, Germaine said, “As soon as Hollister phoned in the names of the businesses next to Mike’s Mini-Mart, I started researching all of them. The name Sean O’Brien may be of interest to you.”
Bannister knew how Germaine liked to draw out the steps she had taken, as well as explain the link analysis she used to reach her conclusions. He listened patiently.
“The tunnel was dug from an office space leased by US Euro Trans-Consultants. The company was listed last year with the Secretary of State’s office and their filing named only one officer, Sean O’Brien, as president. The stated purpose of the business was to arrange international home exchanges and vacation property swaps. O’Brien has a Capitol First credit card and a Georgia driver’s license. Prior to a year ago, neither he nor his business existed, at least according to a hundred databases queried with his name and date of birth. Nothing. Nada. Zilch!” Germaine shifted the papers.
“Thanks, Germaine. That’s good work. See if you can get a photo from DMV.”
Bannister walked over to the ops center, pulled out a chair at one of the computers where the surveillance video had been forwarded, and started reviewing it. He was interested in the thirty-minute window between 1:45 and 2:15 p.m. At 2:06 p.m., footage from Eyeball One showed a figure emerging from the office space leased by US Euro Trans-Consultants. It appeared to be a white male wearing a baseball cap with a brown duffel bag slung over his shoulder. The photographic angle from the plane was too vertical to reveal the subject’s face. The man turned around, apparently locked the office door, opened the trunk of a white sedan parked nearby, and placed the duffel bag inside. He then got into the car and drove slowly out of the strip mall onto Garry Avenue. The camera, which was focused on the area around the dumpster, lost coverage of him as soon as he turned onto Bankhead Highway.
That’s our subject, Bannister thought. The timing was perfect and the duffel bag had to be stuffed with Global’s five million.
SAC Brennan’s meeting started ten minutes late. The key players were in the conference room, including Germaine White, whom Bannister had invited. She’d been successful in getting a driver’s license photo of Sean O’Brien and had printed twenty copies.
Brennan walked in and sat down. “It’s been awhile since I’ve called a meeting this late in the day. I appreciate all of you being here, but I’m sure you realize the importance of this case.” Brennan motioned for Witt to open the meeting.
Witt methodically went over the events leading up to that evening. He explained how everything had been done by the book, but because of the tunnel and the failure of their technical installations, the unsubs—unknown subjects in FBI language—had gotten away.
“Ty Bannister is the case agent, and he’ll explain where we’re going next,” Witt said as he took his seat at the end of the table opposite Brennan. It seemed like he deliberately avoided making eye contact with the boss.
“First off,” Bannister said, “I want to thank all of you and your teams for your efforts. You did what you were supposed to do. Today isn’t ending the way we expected, but I think tomorrow will be different. The forensic team is still at the mini-mart processing the crime scene. Germaine, would you hand out these sets of photos?” Bannister handed her a stack of prints.
“Germaine crunched all the systems and came up with a guy who may be one of our subjects. The first picture you’re looking at is a driver’s license photo of Sean O’Brien, listed as the president of the company leasing the space from where the tunnel was dug.”
“This DL photo looks like a disguise,” Ernie Gonzales said.
“That’d be my guess. If you look, his hair is really bushy, and his mustache looks like the one worn by Gene Shalit, the movie critic. Not to mention the thick glasses,” Bannister added.
“The second picture was cropped from the air surveillance video and shows a guy, maybe this O’Brien, getting into a sedan outside the office about eight minutes after we lost contact with our technical devices planted in the money bag.”
“I told you I had an idea about that,” said Gonzales. “The extortion letter mentioned something about countermeasures. It’s possible our unsubs used some type of shielding to block the signals, but we won’t know for sure until we catch these guys or locate the money.”
“Gary debriefed all of our people who were near the dumpster,” Bannister said, “and no one was seen approaching it after the money was placed inside. The forensic team discovered that the steel bottom of the dumpster had been cut out and replaced with a piece of plywood covered with trash. When the money bag was put inside the dumpster, the bad guys were directly below. Somehow they deactivated or blocked our sensors from sending a signal out. They then dropped the money bag down the hole, substituted their own trash bag with paper filler in its place, and slid the plywood sheet back over the entrance. When Hollister looked in the dumpster about an hour later, he radioed to say the money was still there. What he actually saw was the substituted trash bag.”
“So what are our priorities, Ty?” Brennan asked.
“Tomorrow I want a full court press on this O’Brien, which I’m guessing is an alias. I’ve placed a lookout notice on him with Homeland Security, so they’ll notify us if O’Brien attempts to fly anywhere. I plan on interviewing Best Atlanta’s leasing agent. I want any original papers O’Brien signed preserved for testing. Let’s get a good description of the white sedan and run rental records from the major car rental agencies. I want up-to-date info sent to Quantico, and let’s see if their computer is able to add some details to the subject’s profile.”
Gonzales asked, “What’s Global doing?”
“Gnashing their teeth, for sure. I’ll be talking with their security director as soon as we’re done. We don’t want them losing confidence in our ability to catch whoever’s responsible. Meanwhile, we still need to keep a lid on this.”
“Let’s do what we’re good at,” Brennan said. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow afternoon at four. You’re all dismissed.”
Before returning to his desk, Bannister walked by the vault and gave Germaine a short list of items he wanted her to check out first thing in the morning. He locked his desk and drove back to Mike’s Mini-Mart, which was scheduled to close in ten minutes.
When he arrived, the forensics team was loading their equipment back into the van. The dumpster had been loaded onto a flatbed truck, which was taking it back to a secure area at the office. Gonzales was staying at the office until it arrived. Ramirez gave Bannister an update. The alley had been taped off in both directions, and the team had set up sawhorse signs with flashing yellow lights.
Bannister called Adam Kush. He didn’t mention O’Brien, but let him know they were following up on leads from the search of the leased office.
He was on Northside Drive heading home when his cell phone went off. He assumed it was Kush calling him back.
“Bannister, this is Doug Gordon.”
Bannister’s heart quickened a few beats. Special Agent Gordon was spearheading the investigation into Cal Williamson’s disappearance.
“Do you have any news?”
“We found your friend’s car tonight at Dulles Airport. I had it taken to the Lab at Quantico. They’ll start processing it as soon as it gets there.”
“I thought you guys had already searched the airport.” Bannister hoped the frustration and anger he felt wasn’t creeping into his voice.
“We did,” Gordon said. “His Infiniti wasn’t there the night we searched. One of our teams went back to all the airports
today and found it in long-term parking. It had a Minnesota license plate on it. Somebody switched tags.”
“How do you know they didn’t miss the car during the initial sweep?”
“It’s rained here for three days. We haven’t had any additional precipitation since it stopped yesterday afternoon. Williamson’s car didn’t have any water spots on it. I think it was driven to the airport within the past twenty-four hours.”
“Any sign of Cal or what might have happened?”
“No. A preliminary exam of the car didn’t reveal anything. There was no evidence of foul play. You said you and Williamson were the same size, didn’t you?”
“That’s right. Why?”
“I don’t think he drove the car to the airport. The front seat and rear-view mirror were adjusted for a person about six feet tall. Since your friend is six-four, that means someone else may have been behind the wheel.”
“That probably means something happened to him.”
“It might. But some of the company guys speculated if a person was going to defect, they might deliberately adjust the seat to throw us off.”
Bannister felt a flash of annoyance, but said nothing. He knew there was no way in hell Cal had voluntarily disappeared. The guy had too much going for him.
“I’ll keep you posted on any developments. In the meantime, you’ve got my number. If you think of anything or just want to talk, give me a call.”
“Thanks, Doug.”
ONE YEAR EARLIER—WASHINGTON, DC
Within forty-eight hours of discovering she was HIV positive, Lillian was a changed woman. She’d decided she had two choices: She could be depressed and wallow in self-pity, marking time until AIDS grabbed hold of her body. Or she could take charge of her situation. She decided to fight and direct her energies to give herself the best chance of being a long-term survivor.
On Tuesday, Lillian met with the counselor Dr. Bradford had recommended and discovered the woman to be warm, compassionate, and knowledgeable. Her attitude was so positive, Lillian scheduled semi-monthly meetings with her for the next three months.
When she called Dr. Bradford to give her feedback on the meeting, Lillian asked for a prescription to help her sleep better. She wanted to ensure her energy level was high for the next few weeks. Dr. Bradford, however, suggested waiting at least two weeks to make sure there weren’t adverse side effects from the daily intake of AZT and the cocktail of other HIV drugs. Lillian guessed the real reason was the doctor wanted to minimize the possibility one of her patients might over-dose on Valium.
She then drove directly from one counselor’s office to another—that of Homer Vinson, attorney-at-law. Vinson specialized in family law, or more accurately, the law dealing with the dissolution of families. He was a divorce specialist who had represented one of Lillian’s friends, successfully tracking down thousands in assets the cheating spouse had tried to conceal. Lillian knew Vinson was highly respected in the legal community. Walking into the atrium of his building, Lillian felt proud of the way she was taking charge. Once seated inside his office, she asked Vinson to represent her in divorcing Felix.
He was a large man whose three-hundred-pound girth looked formidable in a dark-blue, three-piece suit and white shirt with blue awning stripes. His huge neck made his bowtie look like a butterfly had landed at his shirt collar. Vinson’s ham-like arms were spread wide on his desk as he leaned forward. His sallow jowls framed a head of curly white hair which floated downward covering his ears. He looked like a lawyer and his voice was mellow and reassuring.
Lillian patiently listened to his expected spiel about marital counseling and a trial separation. When he was finished, she was blunt. “Mr. Vinson, my marriage to Felix is broken,” she said. “Forever. It’s over, and it’s been over for quite some time. I’d hoped his posting to Vienna would change everything. It certainly did, but not in the way I’d hoped. When my husband told me he didn’t want children, and nothing I said could convince him otherwise, it was as if a part of me died.” Lillian paused and took in a deep breath.
“Is that when you decided on divorce?”
“When I returned to Washington, I found out I was HIV positive, and that Felix was responsible.” Lillian looked at Vinson when she mentioned HIV. His eyebrows lifted, but he continued to listen carefully.
“I just couldn’t believe I married and stayed married to that lying, cheating, supercilious piece of shit for a husband!” She took a breath, embarrassed by her emotional outburst. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s quite all right. Do you have any evidence Felix was responsible for infecting you?”
“Yes. I made him get a blood test, and I have a copy of the results. He admitted his infidelity to me.”
“Will he contest the divorce?”
“I see no reason for him to do that. I don’t want a court fight. Isn’t it extremely expensive to go to court?”
“It can be. As you’re probably aware, my fees for appearing in court are four-hundred an hour, plus an additional two thousand a day. What property do the two of you have that might be an issue?”
“We don’t have a house. Each of us has our own property, which we’ve managed to keep separate. My parents died before we were married. I inherited their home in Basking Ridge, New Jersey, and about a million in stocks. My broker has handled everything for me over the past ten years. I think my investments have grown to four million. Funny thing is, that might not be important if I get AIDS, right?”
“Let’s not worry about what might not happen.” He slowly drummed his chubby fingers up and down on the blotter as if his hands were slow moving spiders. “Let me make sure the assets you have are protected and that Felix pays what the law demands. Don’t sign anything unless I tell you.”
“I plan on asking him to move out this weekend. Right now he’s sleeping in the spare bedroom. We barely talk.”
“Okay,” Vinson said as he got up from behind his desk. “Don’t worry, Lillian. I’ll handle everything. Once he moves out, I’d prefer any contact he has with you to be through me first. Do you have any problem with that?”
“No, sir, I don’t.”
Vinson offered Lillian his right hand, and then he gave her a grandfatherly pat on her shoulder. “We’ll get through this legal matter just fine. And my office will help you with any medical referrals or problems with doctor’s bills or tests. I look forward to seeing you again Thursday morning.”
Felix didn’t return to the apartment that night until after eight. Lillian didn’t bother asking him where he’d been, but could tell from his wet hair and the splattered dark drops on his suit coat that it was raining again.
“Did you have dinner?” Lillian asked in a surprisingly civil tone.
“Yeah, I stopped at Blackie’s House of Beef with a couple of people from work,” Felix said as he put his briefcase down beside the coffee table and went to his bedroom to change clothes. He returned a few minutes later.
“Before you grab the remote, I have something to say,” Lillian said. “I saw a lawyer today, and I’m filing for divorce.”
“I figured that would be coming. I haven’t talked to a lawyer yet. I thought about it. I guess I’ll have to put that on my list of ‘to dos.’” Felix sunk back into the sofa and his voice returned to its normal sarcastic tone. “Do you intend to rake me over the coals?”
Standing with her hands on her hips and looking down at Felix, Lillian said, “I don’t have any specific intentions except to end this marriage as soon as possible. And one other thing.”
“Yes?”
“I want you out of here.”
“Do you have a timetable on that, too?”
“Don’t be an asshole like you normally are, Felix. The sooner the better.”
“All right. Quit the name calling. I’ll be out this weekend. Is that fast enough for you?” Felix turned on the television, raised the volume, and looked away from her stare.
“That would be fine,” Lillian said as she turne
d and went into the bedroom and closed the door.
She hadn’t worried about Felix getting physical with her. It would have been totally out of character for him. She sat down at the small desk and opened her laptop. She’d decided on a short message. Although she hadn’t yet figured out how to tell Andre, she knew she’d have to. Her e-mail to him simply said: “Please call me soon. I need to talk to you. Lillian.”
Lillian logged off and called Mary Claire Vine, her best friend. She hadn’t talked with her since leaving Vienna.
“Hello, this is Mary Claire,” the voice answered.
“It’s me, Lillian. How are things in Chicago?”
“Freezing! Where are you calling from? Are you in DC?”
“Yes. I’m back. So much has happened this month. I don’t know where to begin,” Lillian said.
“What’s wrong? You sound like you’re in some kind of trouble.”
“I just needed to talk to you. I asked Felix for a divorce.”
“I’m so sorry. No I’m not. That didn’t come out right. I’m sorry for how you must be feeling, but I’m not sorry you’re leaving Felix. He’s never treated you the way you deserve. I don’t think he’s ever thought of anyone except himself. You feel like talking?”
“I do, but maybe tonight’s not the best. I just wanted you to know. I saw a lawyer today and told him my marriage was over. I worked hard at it, Mary Claire, but I couldn’t get it to work. At some point the love just left.”
“Lillian, don’t blame yourself. Listen. I’ve got oodles of vacation time and my boss has been encouraging me to get away. I was thinking I’d pay you a surprise visit after you got settled. What would you think if I came down to see you for a couple of days?”
“I don’t want you to do that. Why would you want to waste your time with some depressed person?”
“I know you. You’re strong. Remember when I came to New Jersey when your parents died?”
“I’ll never forget that. I needed someone to cry with and you were there for me.”