by Jack Bowie
“That’s hard to say, sir. Probably only a week or so if everything falls into place. We would like to examine Mr. Keane’s and Mr. Lombard’s files. Hard copy and electronic. I trust that won’t be a problem?”
“I don’t believe so, but you’ll have to contact Victor Sutherland, our lawyer, and he will get you everything you need. There is the matter of corporate confidentiality, of course.”
“Yes, we understand that very well, Mr. Greystone. Thank you for your time.”
Jefferson closed his notebook, straightened his coat and stood. Greystone relaxed slightly and rose to escort the officer out.
Pausing at the door, Jefferson said, “One last question, Mr. Greystone. Can you think of any reason why Ted Lombard would want to kill Mr. Keane?”
Greystone shook his head. “None whatsoever. Ted was always an excellent employee. I can’t imagine why he might do something like that.”
“Did Mr. Lombard have any close friends here?” Jefferson continued. “Anyone he might confide in?”
“Ted was a fairly private person. He didn’t spend too much time with others in the office. Except for . . .” Greystone hesitated and waited for the expected reply.
“Yes, Mr. Greystone?”
“Well, there was a rumor he had . . . a friendship with Mr. Keane’s secretary, Clarice Montonet. Nothing I could confirm, however. You will handle that confidentially, Agent Jefferson?” He put on his best concerned look. “No use in upsetting Clarice any further.”
“Of course, Mr. Greystone. We handle these issues quite frequently. I think that’s about all for now. Thank you again for your time.” Jefferson offered his hand. “I may need to check back with you in the next few days. You will be in the area?”
“Oh yes. I doubt any of us will be leaving the office for quite a while.”
Greystone watched as the huge State Police officer walked into the secretarial area then turn and head for Keane’s office. Sutherland was pacing behind the glass. He hoped Victor was up to the task.
He slumped back in the couch and wiped a few drops of perspiration from his forehead.
That should take care of the police. Now back to more important items. He rang Elizabeth to call for the limo.
* * *
Braxton rubbed his bloodshot eyes. The evidence area was dark and dirty, and just trying to read the contents of Ramal’s files had given him a splitting headache. His primary illumination was a bare overhead bulb hanging over the desk from an electric cord. Cobwebs arced gracefully from the light into the dark corners of the room, testaments to the perseverance of the room’s permanent inhabitants. Braxton peered up at the intricate pattern and concluded it looked exactly like a map of the Internet backbone. It had been a long four hours.
He was surrounded by piles of paper and notebooks, the legacy of graduate student Mohammed Ramal. Fowler’s team had gathered what they could from the bombed apartment, added everything from Ramal’s desk at GW, and brought it to the station. A brief report summarized the efforts of the FBI computer experts. It was at best a cursory analysis. There were no indices or abstracts on the computer files. Simple directory and text listings were somewhere in the stack on his left.
Braxton had only had time to scan the voluminous material. Ramal was a classic technology pack rat. He had kept old exams, writing assignments, and lab reports all catalogued and indexed in a homemade SQL data base. There were reviews from networking texts and a huge directory of what appeared to be small fragments of software programs. Braxton assumed that each fragment performed some specific network analysis or checked for a particular message state. It was a tool kit of routines for Ramal’s research. All in all, quite a portfolio for a “passable” graduate student.
Just before 10:00, Braxton had pulled out his cell phone.
“Fowler,” came the growl after Braxton had dialed.
“Good morning, Detective. Adam Braxton.”
“Yeah, I know. What’s the matter?”
“I’ve been going through Ramal’s boxes. He was supposed to have a PC in his apartment, but I can’t find any manuals or documentation. Is there any more evidence anywhere?”
“You got two boxes, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then that’s it.”
“What about the FBI?”
“I said that was all. Us and the FBI.”
“But there’s also no disks or memory sticks. Ramal would have had to backup his system onto something. Are you sure this is everything?”
“That’s all we found Braxton. Weren’t there some documents there? I remember reading some kind of revolutionary crap.”
“I did find a printout of the Anarchist Cookbook, but nobody with any sense would read it.” The Anarchist Cookbook was a classic piece of Internet memorabilia: an anonymously written tome that contained recipes for bombs and explosives. Unfortunately, it was also dangerously inaccurate and hopelessly out-of-date. “If he was really a terrorist, he would have found better stuff on the Internet.”
“Maybe that was his problem,” Fowler offered. “Too lazy to look it up?”
“Possible but unlikely. He was a student for heaven’s sake. He would have grown up on the Internet. You didn’t find any other underground documents in either his apartment or at GW. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”
“Getting killed in an explosion seems strange to me, Braxton.” Fowler was sounding more frustrated. “You got anything else?”
He hadn’t.
Braxton was supposed to track down Ramal and check out his message. Well, he had found him, or what was left of him, and there didn’t seem to be any way of confirming his results. He couldn’t find any log of Ramal’s actions and his mail file on the GW server didn’t show any related communications. It was probably time to call this one quits.
Still, there was something about the search that kept pushing him. He hadn’t felt this driven about his work since his last project at Century. He had solved some pretty bizarre puzzles in his career and it felt good to be back at it. CERT/CC wouldn’t care if he spent a little longer on this one.
“Yes, one thing.”
“What, Braxton?”
“Let’s make that Adam, Detective. It’s shorter. As I said, there’s nothing here that’s out of place, but there’s a lot not here that should be. Do you really feel that this might not have been an accident?”
“I told you all I had was a feeling. The forensic evidence supports the bomb theory: there were no suspicious marks on the body, just a shit load of busted bones and ripped-up tissue.”
“What time was he killed?”
“The blast occurred about 7:45. We’re assuming that was the time of death. Why?”
“That’s less than an hour after he sent CERT the email message. A pretty quick change of activity. You’re sure the body was Ramal?”
“Confirmed by fingerprints. You playing detective now?”
“Sorry, just curious. Did you talk to a roommate or any of Ramal’s friends that might suggest what he had been working on?”
“He lived alone and didn’t seem to have any close friends.” There was a pause as if Fowler was considering something. “I did talk with one other student who sounded like she knew him as well as anyone. Why?”
Now he was going out on a very long limb. He hoped Fowler wouldn’t cut it off. “I’d like to find out where Ramal was working on his projects; in his apartment or at the university. It might help me figure out where he kept his most recent files.”
The phone went silent. The request was a stretch, but if the cop wanted his help . . .
“I’ll give you her name, but you didn’t get it from me. You’re on your own if you try to talk with her. And I want to know what you’ve found out. By tomorrow noon.”
Fowler gave him Susan Goddard’s name and address. Braxton made some final notes, re-boxed the evidence, and walked back to the evidence cage to find Waters. He hoped his next stop would fill in some crucial holes. If not, this was going to
be a very short assignment.
Chapter 16
The Russell Building, Washington, D.C.
Wednesday, 12:30 p.m.
“PLEASE HAVE A seat, Mr. Greystone,” the receptionist recited. A brass name plate proclaimed her to be Camille Johnson. She looked about seventy, was dressed in the finest Washington fashion and greeted constituents with gracious Southern hospitality. Greystone also knew she was as sharp as a rebel bayonet to Yankees. “The Senator will be with you in a moment.”
He quickly scanned the reception area trying unsuccessfully to find a place to sit that didn’t look like it had been designed by the Marquis de Sade. They were all cold, hard, and painful to sit in for any period longer than a few minutes. And he had no doubt that his wait would be carefully timed by Potterfield for maximum discomfort.
He, of course, had done precisely the same thing on any number of occasions.
Potterfield was Chairman of the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations. A frighteningly powerful position controlling a committee with jurisdiction over nearly all of the United States’ relationships with other countries. The Committee oversees diplomatic policy, investigates breaches of international law, approves foreign assistance, and sanctions military interventions including declarations of war.
In the three years that he had chaired the Committee, Potterfield had led a strong pro-business agenda, implementing a new Republican-driven international industrial policy. Not a policy that positioned the government against the free-market, but one that increased international commerce based on strategic economic and humanitarian assistance. And one that greatly inflated the coffers of favored companies.
Potterfield’s current focus was passage of the Senate’s Promoting Freedom and Democracy Bill, or the Potterfield Bill as it was more commonly called after its principal author. The Bill would address the third leg of the Republicans’ political stool: military assistance. It would open the doors to aggressive export of US military equipment and technology in support of regime defense, and potentially regime change, all in the name of promulgation of American democratic values.
To some, the policy would be a reaffirmation of the country’s commitment to freeing the world of terrorism and tyranny, with the added benefit of not endangering American lives. To others, it was an excuse to rain death on today’s political enemies, while ignoring the inevitable bite-in-the-ass from tomorrow’s dictator that recent history guaranteed. To Greystone, it was simply the opportunity of a lifetime.
The Chairman had called a lunch recess to the hearing after Greystone’s testimony ended and the executive had wandered the halls of the Russell Building for another ten minutes before discovering Potterfield’s office. Ample time for the Senator to negotiate well-worn passages and disappear into his oak-paneled fortress.
Now, Potterfield’s receptionist sat like a sentry behind her desk guarding the entrance to her sovereign’s inner sanctum. The dour look on her face would be enough to stop anyone short of a Special Forces Drill Sergeant.
Overall, he had been pleased with his morning’s effort. His prepared statement had gone smoothly and the questions he had fielded before the recess had been expectedly simplistic and easily handled. Still, even he had to admit it had sent a chill down his spine to be there. The Russell Caucus Room had been the scene of momentous events for the nation: the hearing on the sinking of the HMS Titanic, the infamous witch-hunts by Senator Joseph McCarthy, and the Watergate and Iran-Contra investigations. Greystone had been both awed and jealous of the unbridled power that had permeated the room. It was time to put some of that influence to his advantage.
Looking around the reception area, Greystone noted it had been appointed for maximum impact on visitors. Pictures of Potterfield with political leaders including Nixon, Reagan, Thatcher, both Bushes and even Khrushchev, hung prominently on the walls. These were interspersed with pieces of campaign memorabilia commemorating his years in public service and sappy letters from grateful constituents thanking him for interceding on their behalf. More likely, the Senator had simply ordered one of his aides to pressure some poor civil servant.
One particularly ugly object d'art was a garishly painted water buffalo that had been presented to Potterfield by the President of the Congo for “exemplary services rendered in support of the people of the Congo”. As Greystone remembered it, Potterfield had supported an arms deal with Congolese rebels that had ultimately resulted in the deaths of 20,000 civilians.
“Mr. Greystone, the Senator will see you now,” said the belle without glancing up from her work. “First door on your right.”
* * *
While Greystone had been left to ponder the walls of the reception area, Senator David Potterfield, Senior Senator from Virginia and Chairman of the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations, had been reviewing his file on the executive.
Robert Greystone had come from a well-to-do New York family with homes in the City and the Connecticut shore. His father had been a financier and his mother a prominent socialite. The family philosophy was decidedly conservative Republican. He was an only child, and a late arrival at that, an obvious surprise to the middle-aged Mr. and Mrs. Greystone. They had given him the best education their money could buy, first at Andover Academy and then Harvard. Greystone had subsequently risen rapidly through a number of technology companies to his present position. He lived comfortably but had recently gone through a costly divorce. The report noted no known indiscretions.
Since Theater Electronics was based in Potterfield’s home state, the two men had met on a few occasions, primarily fund raisers and lobbying events. Potterfield had pegged him as a slippery, ambitious businessman, just the kind to trade his company’s support of the pending Bill for a few legislative favors. In a hastily added final sentence, Potterfield noted the recent death of Greystone’s boss.
When Greystone had called the Senator’s office and requested a meeting, Potterfield had graciously scheduled time over the noon recess. He was intrigued as to what the executive was looking for.
There was a knock on the door, and Potterfield replied with a homey, “C’mon in.”
The Chairman’s inner office was even more plush and ostentatious than the reception area. The walls were paneled in deep golden oak with intricately carved accents and the floor was covered in a rich gold broadloom. More photographs and memorabilia of the owner’s political escapades decorated the walls and available cabinet tops. His desk was massive, taking up most of the back of the room. And behind the desk, huge windows offered a view of the Capitol dome rising over verdant trees and lawn, a proper reminder of the power held by the office’s inhabitant. Off to the right a small sitting area had been created where informal conversations could be held, but Potterfield motioned Greystone to an elaborately-carved, and exceedingly uncomfortable, chair facing the Senator’s desk.
“Senator Potterfield,” Greystone began. “I very much appreciate you agreeing to see me on such short notice.”
“It’s nothin’ son. I’m always happy to meet with representatives from the business community. But first, do let me express my condolences on the very untimely death of your CEO, Mr. Keane.” Potterfield put on his best southern drawl and fatherly countenance.
“Thank you very much, Senator. I will convey your sentiment to our Board. Charles was a unique individual and he will certainly be missed. But I know he would not want his death to stand in the way of our small contribution to your important legislative efforts.”
Potterfield’s initial evaluation of the executive sounded spot-on. Time to toss the crap back. “The Committee does appreciate Theater’s support of our Bill, Mr. Greystone. You received a very positive reaction, at least from most of the Committee.” Potterfield attempted a smile but once it materialized on his craggy face it looked more like a sneer. “And I must say you handled Senator Hastings’ inquisition very well.”
“Thank you, Senator. I will pass along your kind comments to my research team. They were able to anticipate
most of his arguments.”
Donald Hastings, Senior Senator from Illinois, was a knowledgeable and influential member of the Committee. Unfortunately, the Democrat was also a lily-white dove, eschewing any form of military action or support. He and Potterfield had been at each other’s throats for decades and the spectacle of the hearings on the Potterfield Bill were a perfect arena.
Potterfield shrugged. “My esteemed colleague does see things somewhat differently when it comes to supporting emerging democracies,” he explained. “I believe we have to promote good old American values around the world.”
“And we all appreciate your efforts, Senator. Our continuing support of your work is what I would like to discuss with you; how together we could achieve our common goals for eliminating terrorism and supporting true democracies across the globe.”
“My goal is very simple, Mr. Greystone,” Potterfield said, his eyes never leaving those of his visitor. “I want America to remain the beacon of hope for all people. To promote, and support, democracy and freedom everywhere. And to fight those that would enslave and oppress behind whatever flag. Do y’all have some ideas on how that might be accomplished?”
“As I outlined in my testimony this morning Senator, I believe the greatest impediment to adoption of your Bill is the concern by some parties, even members of your own party, that we would be releasing technology of critical importance to our national security. ‘Opening the kimono too far’, as they might say. These individuals adamantly support the existing ITAR 121 and Suite B restrictions.”
Potterfield nodded politely while trying desperately to remember the last briefing his aides had given him. Military communication and intelligence systems were controlled by a bewildering set of regulations and classifications. ITAR 121 was Part 121 of the International Traffic in Arms Regulations document, better known as the United States Munitions List. This tome listed all the types of material under US export control. Included were guns, ammunition, tanks, aircraft carriers and encrypted communications equipment. State Department approval was needed for any distribution of listed equipment.