The Money Trail

by J. C. Fields

  “Let’s get this laptop to JR. No telling what he’ll find on it.”

  ***

  Nine Hours Later

  The laptop secured from the hacker’s house revealed its secrets gradually. JR and Alexia were finally able to confirm the rest of the Free America members’ locations.

  The computer hacker looked up at Kruger, who was yawning. “You look like shit.”

  “Yah, well, so do you. What’d you find?”

  JR gave the FBI agent a quick smile and handed him a sheet of paper.

  “Locations with GPS coordinates. Thank you, Google Earth.”

  Kruger stared at the page. He lowered it and smiled at his friend.

  “You never cease to amaze me.”

  “Just part of the service.”

  ***

  Congenial meetings between party leaders in ultra-partisan Washington, D.C., occur occasionally, particularly when the nation faces a crisis, 9/11 and the Great Recession being the most recent. A different crisis faced the new president and Congress. Since the revelation of sixty members of Congress hiding criminal or sexual assault charges behind the veil of attorney-client privilege, fifty resignations and ten censure votes occurred within the ranks of Congress. Replacement members had yet to be appointed by their respective state governors, so legislation ground to a halt with majorities suddenly in question.

  However, with the devastating cyber-attacks occurring almost simultaneously with release of the Rothenburg and Sandifer legal files, the country stood on the precipice of a total collapse of public trust in government. Protests, rallies, sit-ins and political pundits denounced the handling of the crisis by members of Congress. Cries for investigations and additional resignations arose from individuals seeking to take advantage of the chaos.

  Into this backdrop, President Roy Griffin gathered top congressional leadership for a meeting, a meeting that would ultimately cement his place in history as one of the great presidents of the United States.

  ***

  As was his habit, Griffin listened to the whining of Senate Majority Leader David Clayton without interruption. FBI Director Paul Stumpf sat quietly next to the president.

  “Mr. President, it is the complete and total failure of the FBI, CIA, NSA and all the other departments under Homeland Security that caused this crisis. What are your plans to correct this mismanagement of our country’s security?”

  Griffin smiled as he tapped a pencil on a notepad in front of him. Looking Clayton in the eyes, he said, “First, I have accepted the resignation of Paula Adams, effective immediately and assigned retired Four-Star General Alton Patterson as interim Secretary. That is, until Congress can confirm his appointment.” He looked around the room, but no protests seemed to be forthcoming.

  He continued, “Second, with all due respect David, you are wrong. The failure of Homeland Security to prevent this crisis was a lack of vision by Congress and the previous administration to place a competent individual in charge. Ms. Adams is a fine person, but she lacked the background and vision to deal with the complexity of the department.”

  House Minority Leader Darrel Williamson said, “The Senate rushed her appointment, just like they did most of Bryant’s picks for his Cabinet.”

  The president raised his hands. “Darrel, we’re here to solve a problem, not pass blame. There is plenty of that to go around. Let’s keep focused on what we can do now.”

  Williamson glared at the president for a few moments then softened his expression and nodded.

  “Mr. President,” Speaker of the House Sheila Davidson pointed at Paul Stumpf, “what is the FBI doing and why didn’t they stop this attack?”

  “I’m glad you asked, Sheila.” Griffin turned to the FBI Director and nodded.

  With a smile, Stumpf passed out five folders, one for each of the leadership, one for the President and one for him to refer to. “The FBI has been investigating the individual who financed these attacks for almost six months,” he announced.

  Clayton pounded the conference table with his fist and his face grew crimson. “Why didn’t you stop the attacks if you knew about them?”

  Griffin raised a hand. “David, let Paul finish.”

  The elder senator from the state of Illinois sat back, crossed his arms and glared at Stumpf.

  The FBI Director continued, “We learned of a group calling themselves Free America several weeks ago. Following a money trail, created by a Russian oligarch named Dmitri Orlov, allowed us to discover the existence of this group.”

  Senate Minority Leader Jefferey Ramirez frowned. “That name sounds familiar. Where have I heard it?”

  “Senator, Dmitri Orlov was the Chairman of the Board for three banks seized by the FDIC several weeks ago. They all failed a surprise stress test.”

  “Now I remember.”

  “We believe that event was the catalyst for the cyber-attack by Free America.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because we can trace over fifty-two million euros transferred by Orlov into the coffers of the hacker group.”

  All four members of congress widened their eyes. Stumpf continued, “Because this Free America group maintained operational silence until the attack, we had no idea where they were located. That is no longer the case. Members of our Cyber Crime department located individuals within this group inside the continental United States immediately afterward. The FBI Rapid Response Group, utilizing coordinated raids last night, raided all three residential locations and seized equipment and individuals involved in the crime.”

  No response came from the members of Congress, only silence.

  Griffin picked up the narrative: “Because of these raids, the FBI can identify the exact locations of the remaining members of the hacker group. They are overseas. Most are in Europe, which our NATO allies will handle. The problem with the locations not under NATO control is they happen to be in three countries on the southern rim of the Mediterranean.”

  Clayton put his hand on his forehead and muttered, “Oh, dear god.”

  “Tunisia, Libya and Morocco.”

  Sheila Davidson frowned. “Are the governments of those countries involved?”

  Stumpf answered the question. “They do not appear to be.”

  Ramirez turned his attention back to Griffin. “What do you need from us, Mr. President?”

  “What I need from Congress is the authorization to use our military Special Forces to seize these sites and detain any individuals involved.”

  Clayton stared at Griffin with an astonished look, as did Sheila Davidson. Both looked at each other and seeing the political value of the request, they both turned to Griffin and said in unison, “Yes sir, Mr. President.”

  After the members of Congress left the room and Paul Stumpf busied himself putting files in a briefcase, Roy Griffin turned to him and asked, “Do you think they bought it?”

  Stumpf gave the new president a sly smile. “They didn’t have to buy it. They saw political gain in approving your request. You’ll get the authorization.”

  By midnight, President Roy Griffin received authorization from Congress to go to war against Free America.

  Chapter 44

  Springfield, MO

  At exactly 12:07 a.m., the Cessna Citation X touched down at the Springfield Branson National Airport. After completing his landing, the pilot immediately taxied the plane to a well-lit private hangar. The doors opened as the aircraft approached. Inside the hangar, a dark gray Chevrolet Suburban with blacked out windows could be seen parked next to the northern wall. As the plane entered the hangar, its twin turbine engines spooled down and the hangar doors closed. When the plane came to a complete stop, two large exhaust fans kicked on to ventilate the interior of aviation fuel fumes.

  Two men stepped out of the Suburban. One was large, the sleeves on his FBI-emblazoned polo shirt stretched by the size of his biceps. The other man, slender with an athletic air about him, waited for the cabin door to open on the Cessna.

&n
bsp; Four men, all dressed in orange jumpsuits, all shackled and all with hoods over their heads, were escorted down the plane’s airstair by U.S. Marshals.

  The larger of the two FBI agents recognized one of them. U.S. Marshal Toby Weber smiled and shook the man’s hand.

  “What’s it been, Sandy? Two years?”

  “At least.”

  “Time flies.”

  “It does. Any trouble on the flight?”

  “Only the Russian, kept mumbling about wanting a lawyer. He started to agitate the others, so we gave him a mild sedative. He’s groggy, but conscious. Shouldn’t cause any problems for you.”

  Weber handed Knoll a clipboard with numerous pages held secure at the top. “Transfer of custody paperwork.”

  Knoll nodded, skimmed the documents and looked up at Weber. “Got a pen?”

  When the documents were signed and returned, Weber handed Knoll a 9 X 12-inch white envelope with the seal of the U.S. Marshal’s office stamped on it.

  “Tell Kruger he owes me. I hand-walked that through DOJ yesterday.”

  Accepting the envelope, Knoll nodded. “Thanks, Toby.”

  Almost as tall as Knoll, Weber was a no-nonsense U.S. Marshal with short gray hair, a deep Texas tan, round face, piercing green eyes and broad shoulders. The last time they worked together was in Houston, Texas, during a hostage rescue.

  Weber pointed to the four men as the other U.S. Marshals arranged them in the Suburban. “The three hackers haven’t said a word since we took custody of them. One kind of whimpered when we put the hood over his eyes, but the others, not a sound.”

  “You ever been to the Federal Center here?”

  “Couple of times. Why?”

  “You know a quick way to get them inside without a lot of fuss?”

  “Yeah, want me to drive?”

  “Thought you’d never ask.”

  Four hours later, with the three former members of Free America and Yuri Popov secure inside the United States Medical Center for Federal Prisoners, Weber was driven back to the airport where the Cessna remained in the hangar, refueled and ready to depart. Knoll watched the plane take off and turned to Jimmie Gibbs.

  “Now the fun begins. You gonna grab some sleep here in town or go back to Joseph’s?”

  “Alexia’s been working sixteen hours a day at JR’s since this mess started. I got her a hotel room close to his building. I’ll crash there.” He glanced at his watch. “She’s probably already back at JR’s.”

  “How you two doing?”

  Gibbs gave Knoll a sly smile. “Pretty damn good.”

  Knoll grinned.

  ***

  At precisely 10 a.m., one of the hackers entered an interview room situated in the Federal Center. He was still dressed in the same orange jumpsuit he arrived in earlier that same morning. He looked haggard and weary. His hands and feet were shackled and attached to rings in the floor and tabletop, his freedom of movement limited.

  Kruger, followed by Knoll, entered the room. Knoll leaned against the door and gave the young man a menacing scowl. Kruger sat across from the prisoner and opened a manila file folder. He read quietly for five minutes as the hacker started to sweat, but remained quiet.

  Looking up, the FBI agent said, “My name is Sean Kruger. I’m a Special Agent with the FBI and my colleague is Special Agent Benedict Knoll.” He pointed to the pages in front of him. “This report tells me you’ve not been very cooperative.”

  The hacker stared at Kruger, but said nothing.

  “I see, the silent type. Let me tell you what we know, then maybe you’ll be more talkative.”

  Again, his answer was silence.

  “Your name is Edwardo Gates, born in New York City to a single mother from Puerto Rico. She gave you the father’s last name, but you’ve never met the man. Your mother worked two jobs while fellow Puerto Rican friends, whom your mother lived with, helped raise you. You served a two-year stint in the army with one deployment to Afghanistan and an honorable discharge. On your return to the states, you attended Rutgers on a scholarship and graduated with a computer science degree. You worked for Google for three years, then suddenly quit. Now you’re sitting in a Federal Prison with a possible life sentence staring you in the face. What did I get wrong, Edwardo?”

  “Leave my mother out of this.”

  Kruger cocked his head. “When was the last time you spoke to her, Edwardo?”

  The man shook his head.

  “Did you know she passed away this past spring?”

  The young man’s eyes widened and he sat a little straighter. His expression changed and he narrowed his eyes. “You’re trying to trick me.” He paused as he stared at Kruger. “I have nothing else to say.”

  Shrugging, Kruger pulled out a folded newspaper page and opened it so the hacker could see the obituary.

  As the man read the article, his shoulders slumped again and wetness pooled in his eyes. “I didn’t know.”

  “Why did you join Free America?”

  In his unguarded state, Edwardo said, “To avenge the way my mother was treated in this country.”

  “How was she treated?”

  “Like a non-citizen.”

  Kruger did not respond. He simply let the man talk.

  “She used to tell me stories of Puerto Rico, the food, the culture, the simple way of life and how much she missed it. She came to New York City with a man she met in San Juan who promised her a high-paying job and to become his wife. Once she became pregnant with me, he disappeared. There was no high-paying job and the guy was married. As a single mother, she never made more than minimum wage in a city with one of the highest costs of living in the world. She was never given a chance and could not afford to take us back home.”

  “So, you joined Free America to change the country?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know who funds the group?”

  The man shook his head.

  “Why that particular group?”

  “Because we were all Americans looking for a way to change our country for the better.”

  Kruger pursed his lips. “How many members of Free America do you think there are?”

  “I do not know. If I did, I would not tell you.”

  Nodding, Kruger clasped his hands together on the table. “Of the thirty members we’ve identified, only three are Americans. The rest are located in European cities and three countries in northern Africa. The group is funded by a Russian named Dmitri Orlov, an oligarch who used to be a KGB officer prior to the fall of the USSR. Trust me, his intent for the group is not to change the United States for the better.”

  Gates stared at Kruger for a dozen seconds. A slow smile appeared. “Nice try, Mr. FBI. I don’t believe you.”

  “That’s fine, because I think your self-proclaimed patriotism is bullshit. You were motivated by greed. It’s as simple as that.”

  The prisoner tried to stand up, but the shackles prevented him from raising more than six inches. “Don’t you dare question my love for my mother and this country.”

  Kruger shook his head. “If you loved your mother so much, why didn’t you know she was gravely ill?”

  “I was busy.”

  “Once again, bullshit. Some of my colleagues interviewed your mother’s friends. She hadn’t heard from you in over three years, Edwardo. Want to try again and tell me the truth or do you want to spend the rest of your life in some dark hellhole in Colorado?”

  “I want a lawyer.”

  “Can’t have one.”

  “Why? I’m an American citizen. It’s my right.”

  Kruger stood and smiled. “Not if you’ve been declared an enemy combatant and a terrorist. You have no rights according to the Patriot Act of 2001.”

  He turned, nodded to Knoll and the two agents left the room.

  Knoll chuckled as they walked down the hall. “Think he’ll figure out you’re as full of shit as he is?”

  Returning the chuckle, Kruger looked at his friend. “Let’s ho
pe not.”

  ***

  The interview with Yuri Popov proved to be more productive. The Russian was led into a different room. He was unshackled, but still wore the same orange jumpsuit. Kruger and Knoll were waiting for him. After he sat down across from Kruger, he said, “What do I need to do to not be sent back there?”

  “Tell me everything you know about Dmitri Orlov and his organization.”

  “How can I do that, Agent Kruger? If I help you, I will be arrested and sent to a much worse hellhole when I get back to my mother country.”

  “We can always put you into a general population prison. Let your embassy know where you are. Maybe the same thing that happened to Peter Yanovich will happen to you.”

  Popov closed his eyes. “What happened to Peter?”

  Reaching into his inside breast suitcoat pocket, he retrieved two pictures and laid them on the table between he and Popov. He pointed to a picture of a large man entering a coffee shop. “Recognize this man?”

  “Yes, it is Boris Volkov.”

  “That was taken by a security camera in a Starbucks in Arlington, a few days ago.” He pointed at the second picture. “Do you know the guy Volkov is talking to?” The picture was of two men hunched over a table in conversation.

  The Russian shook his head. “No.”

  “You sure?”

  Popov glared at Kruger, his forehead furrowed. “Yes, I am sure. Who is he?”

  Tapping the picture on the image of the other man, Kruger gave Popov a grim smile. “He was arrested on a drunk and disorderly charge later that night and remanded to the same sheriff’s jail as Yanovich. He stabbed Peter to death the next morning.”

  Popov took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I want a deal.”

  “Thought you might.” Kruger opened the white envelope with the seal of the U.S. Marshal’s office and extracted a sheath of papers. Placing them on the table facing Popov, he sat back and folded his arms over his chest. “That document is from the United States Department of Justice offering to place you in the Witness Protection program in exchange for your full cooperation.”