A Brewing Storm: A Derrick Storm Short (2 page)

Chapter Three

Through the bullet-resistant windows of the black limousine, Storm saw the U.S. Capitol dome rising before them as they rode east on Constitution Avenue. It was an impressive sight, especially brightly floodlit at night.

The car passed the Russell Senate Office Building (SOB), which was the first of three ornate office buildings used by the nation’s one hundred elected U.S. senators. In a city obsessed with acronyms, Storm had always thought the shorthand SOB seemed a fitting description for where senators did their business.

The Dirksen SOB was next. Opened in 1958, it had been known for nearly two decades simply as SOB Number Two, until Congress decided to name it after the late Illinois Republican Senator Everett M. Dirksen, an orator so famous that he’d been awarded a Grammy for an album of his patriotic speeches called
Gallant Men
.

Senators loved naming buildings after their own.

When the limo stopped at the Dirksen SOB’s western entrance, the SPS security officer in the front seat jumped out and darted inside to alert the Capitol Hill Police officers on duty that two VIPs were arriving. Jones and Storm would not be delayed by security checks. There would be no walk-through metal detectors, no searching of briefcases and emptying of pockets. Instead, both men were quickly escorted to Senator Windslow’s office, where a secretary immediately led them into the senator’s inner chamber.

As with most other things on Capitol Hill, senate offices were doled out based on seniority and power. The bigger the office, the more important the senator. Windslow had been assigned the largest office in the Dirksen. His private domain had fifteen-foot-tall ceilings, ornate carved wooden bookcases, and thick carpet. Expensive brown leather sofas and overstuffed chairs faced an executive desk made of polished mahogany that had clearly not come from some General Services Administration warehouse. One wall was covered with framed photographs that showed the senator posing with foreign presidents and dignitaries. It was proof that Windslow relished his power and clearly enjoyed taxpayer-funded junkets to exotic locales. Another wall was decorated with the Texas state seal and a pair of mounted longhorns from a Texas steer.

The senator rose from behind his desk but made no effort to walk forward and greet them. He let them come to him with outstretched hands.

“About time you got here, Jedidiah,” Windslow snapped, as he shook the CIA spymaster’s hand. “You’ve kept me waiting ten minutes.”

Windslow looked at Storm, and the two men immediately sized each other up, like two schoolboys squaring off during recess.

Tall and thin, Windslow was in his early seventies and instantly recognizable. He was a familiar face on Sunday morning television talk shows and evening newscasts. But it was his haircut and voice that made him memorable. He had pure white hair that he wore in an outdated, carefully coifed pompadour swept back from his forehead and held firmly in place with a glossy shellac spray. He spoke with a slow, deliberate Southern drawl that was sprinkled with homespun sayings that he frequently used to remind voters that he was one of them, a yellow-dog Democrat. In Texas, which he had represented for more than thirty years, he was considered undefeatable.

“So this is your man,” Windslow said.

“Senator Windslow,” Jones said, “this is Steve Mason. He doesn’t work for me, but he occasionally does piecework for me. He’s a private detective.”

“You’re the fixer?” Windslow asked bluntly. “You’re the man who gets things done no matter what—am I right?”

Storm didn’t like the fact that there were three others in the office. He’d identified FBI Special Agent April Showers as soon as he walked in. A telltale bulge under the jacket she was wearing had given her away. He’d recognized the senator’s wife from news articles. But he had no idea who the twenty-something-year-old girl was sitting nearby.

“I’m here to lend a hand,” Storm said, dodging the senator’s questions.

“I’ve already got enough hands,” Windslow replied. “I’ve got the entire FBI lending a hand, and so far, it hasn’t done any good. What I need is someone with a fist.”

No one spoke for a moment, and then the senator’s wife said in a quiet voice, “My husband seems to have forgotten his manners. My name is Gloria Windslow.” She rose gracefully from her seat, showing the emotional control of a well-trained politician’s wife. Even in times of great emotional stress, she knew that she needed to be composed.

Her grip was soft. Her fingernails manicured. She was at least thirty years younger than her husband and was dressed in a pricey New York designer outfit that had been tailored to accent her figure.

Storm had read about her in the media. As soon as she’d finished high school, Gloria Windslow had fled the poor, rural Texas town where she’d been born. Her ticket had been her breathtaking good looks and unbridled ambition, which had led to her winning a spot on the Dallas Cowboys cheerleading roster. She’d gotten pregnant, married a star NFL quarterback, and then divorced him two years later, after claiming that he’d abused her. She and her newborn had made the covers of both
People
and
Us
magazines, where she’d been portrayed as a determined single mom who’d refused to be bullied by her famous husband. Gloria and the senator had met two years later at a Dallas political fund-raiser where supporters had paid three thousand dollars a plate to hear him speak. She’d arrived on the arm of one of the city’s most eligible bachelors, a prominent lawyer, but had traded up, leaving with Windslow. A month later, he hired her to work in Washington as his personal secretary. A year later, Windslow filed for divorce from his wife of thirty years, causing a dustup back home. The new couple’s age difference raised eyebrows, but Windslow hired a Manhattan public relations firm to salvage his well-crafted reputation as a good Christian family man, and by the time the Madison Avenue spin masters were finished, Gloria was no longer a home wrecker. She was now a confident and trusted advisor to her husband, with a passion about education, libraries, and women’s issues. At Christmas, she invited special needs children to a party at their estate, and gave them pony rides in a heated barn.

She was still stunning in her mid-forties, thanks to a strict starvation diet, cosmetic surgery, and regular Botox injections.

After introducing herself, Gloria directed Storm to the other women in the office.

“This is Miss Samantha Toppers,” she said, directing his attention to the youngest. “She and my son, Matthew Dull, are engaged to be married.”

As Toppers rose from her seat on a sofa to meet him, Storm realized that he was looking at an architectural marvel. She weighed less than a hundred pounds and was under five feet tall, but she was so top-heavy that Storm wondered how she kept herself from tumbling facedown when she reached out to shake his hand.

“Nice to meet you,” Toppers said in her childlike voice.

When he finally got around to looking at her face, he saw that her eyes were swollen and red from crying.

“And this is Special Agent April Showers,” Gloria continued.

In her green eyes, Storm saw a look of irritation. She couldn’t have been any more opposite in appearance to Toppers. The FBI agent was six feet tall and had a world-class marathoner’s body, which meant she averaged two pounds per inch. In her mid-thirties, she had porcelain white skin and wore her red hair tied in a bun.

“Now that you’ve met everyone,” Senator Windslow said, “let’s get to it. My stepson, Matthew, has been kidnapped. They grabbed him while he and Samantha were walking across the Georgetown campus.”

“Fortunately,” Gloria interrupted, “they didn’t bother Samantha, but they did kidnap my son.”

For the first time since Storm had entered the office, he saw a crack in Gloria Windslow’s veneer. Tears began to form in her eyes. She removed a tissue from her purse and dabbed them.

“The kidnappers,” Windslow continued, “left Miss Toppers hysterical on the sidewalk.”

Storm looked for some sign of sympathy in Windslow’s face, but there was none.
Had he expected the top-heavy Toppers to fight the assailants?

Toppers lowered her eyes, avoiding contact with Windslow’s glare.

“I think it would be best,” Gloria said, between sniffles, “if Special Agent Showers gave you the details. It is difficult for me to discuss the facts without becoming emotional.”

Taking her hint, Agent Showers said, “The kidnapping happened three days ago. A white van pulled up at an intersection on the edge of the Georgetown campus where Mr. Dull and Miss Toppers were waiting for a red light to change. It was shortly after fourteen hundred hours. Three men, all wearing ski masks, leaped out of the vehicle. One stayed behind the wheel. The first assailant fired an automatic weapon in the air to scare onlookers. The other two overpowered Matthew and forced him into the van. We found the van abandoned six blocks away.”

“No fingerprints or trace evidence, I assume?” Storm said.

“That’s right. Wiped clean.”

“How about the shell casings left behind?”

“It’s all in my report,” she replied curtly.

“Which she’ll be happy to give you after we are done,” Windslow declared. “I spoke to FBI Director Jackson this morning, and he has instructed Agent Showers to cooperate fully with you. No questions asked. Isn’t that correct?”

“Yes,” Showers said. “I’ve been ordered to help you.”

“Agent Showers doesn’t think bringing you into the investigation is a good idea,” Gloria Windslow said. “My husband and I feel differently.”

“That’s because the FBI hasn’t done a damn thing so far,” Windslow declared.

Storm saw Showers’s jaw muscles tighten. He suspected she was biting down hard to keep her response from slipping out.

“I got a ransom note,” Windslow said, “the day after those bastards snatched him. They demanded a million dollars, which I immediately agreed to pay.” Windslow shot FBI Agent Showers a disgusted look. “Agent Showers here assured me that if I played along with these sons-of-bitches, the Bureau would be able to catch them when they picked up my money.”

“But that’s not what happened,” Gloria Windslow said, cutting in on his account. The two of them made quite a tag team. For not wanting to discuss the case, both seemed eager to do it.

“The Bureau here screwed up,” Windslow said.

“With all due respect, Senator,” Showers replied. “We followed standard procedures. The ransom was left exactly where the kidnappers had told us to put it. The entire place was under surveillance.”

“That money just sat there,” Windslow said, “and no one showed to get my million dollars. They knew it was a trap. Someone tipped off the kidnappers. I just know it.”

“We don’t know that,” Showers said.

“Well, young lady, something spooked them—like a mule deer sniffing the air when you’re hunting,” Windslow said. “The next morning, I got another ransom note; only now these bastards have decided to play hardball.”

Gloria began to quietly sob. Toppers left the couch and knelt down next to the chair where her future mother-in-law sat. Rising from behind his desk, Windslow walked over, too, and put his right hand on Gloria’s shoulder. “This is a terrible thing for my wife to be going through.” He stroked her hair.

Continuing, Windslow said, “Those bastards pulled out four of Matthew’s front teeth and sent them to me in that ransom note, along with a photograph. That’s when I decided to talk to Jedidiah. That’s when I decided we needed your help.”

Storm looked at Agent Showers. She had placed her right leg over her left one and then wrapped them so tightly together that she now had her right toe tucked behind her left ankle. Her arms were crossed against her chest. Even someone completely unfamiliar with body language would have recognized how frustrated she was.

“I’d like to see the two ransom notes,” Storm said.

“Agent Showers will get them for you,” Windslow said. “Now, I’d like all the women folk here to skedaddle for a few moments so I can talk to Jedidiah and his man in private.”

“C’mon, ladies,” Gloria said, rising slowly from her seat. Toppers instantly fell in line, but Showers didn’t move.

“Senator,” she said sternly, “as head of this investigation, I need to be involved in every discussion that you might have that involves the kidnapping.”

“I have things to say in private, Miss Showers,” Windslow snapped. “I was assured earlier today by Director Jackson that I would have your total and full cooperation. Do I need to have him replace you?”

“For the record,” Showers said, “I think you are making a mistake bringing this outsider into the case.”

“For the record,” Windslow replied, mimicking her, “I asked you to leave my office.”

Showers walked out the door.

“Jedidiah tells me,” Windslow said to Storm when she was gone, “that you’re a man who knows how to find people who don’t want to be found and that you can handle yourself in extremely difficult situations.”

Jones said, “He’s my go-to guy. If it were my stepson, I’d call him.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” Windslow said. “I need someone who can track down these bastards and do whatever is necessary to free my stepson. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

Storm said, “You want results and you don’t care how I get them.”

Windslow smiled. “Finally, I’m getting the sort of answers I wanted. Yes, this is exactly what I want from you, Mr. Mason, or whatever the hell your name might be. I asked Jedidiah to get me someone who isn’t worried about legal niceties. I asked him to get me the best.”

Storm didn’t respond.

“First, I want you to track down these bastards, and then, I want you to kill every one of them. I’m not worried about you reading them their legal rights and arresting them and getting them some fast-talking lawyer whose going to bottle this up in some long, drawn-out trial. I want them dead. I want you to get it done before they send more of my stepson’s body parts to my wife.”

Chapter Four

It was 8:30 P.M., by the time Storm and Jones left Capitol Hill and arrived at the Willard InterContinental Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue, less than a block from the White House. Before they parted, Jones handed Storm an envelope stuffed with hundred-dollar bills, a fake Nevada driver’s license, private investigator credentials under the name Steve Mason, a cell phone that was a direct line to Jones at the CIA, and the keys to a rental car parked in the hotel’s lot. Storm reached his fifth-floor suite at the same moment the phone inside it began to ring. It was FBI Agent Showers calling from the lobby. She’d come to brief him.

“Come on up,” Storm said.

“I’ll wait for you in the hotel’s restaurant.”

Storm joined her five minutes later at a secluded table.

“I’ve never stayed in this hotel,” she said as he was sitting down. “But it is famous. Mark Twain wrote two books here.”

“We can go up to my suite and I’ll give you a tour,” he said.

“I was being polite, making chitchat,” she said. “I’ve no interest in going to your bedroom.”

“Too bad,” he intimated. “I was hoping for a full debriefing.”

Storm glanced around the mostly empty restaurant. “This hotel is much nicer than the places Jedidiah typically sends me,” he said.

The waiter arrived. Showers ordered coffee. Storm ordered a sixteen-dollar hamburger and an eight-dollar beer. When their server left, she said, “And where would some of those places be—where Jedidiah has sent you?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“That’s an old line.”

“In my case, it happens to be true.”

“Look,” she said sternly. “I’ve been ordered to brief you and work with you. I think I deserve to know who you are.”

The waiter interrupted with their drinks. After he’d left, Storm said, “I’m a private investigator—just like Jedidiah said. I used to work for him on occasion when I was in the military.”

“Oh really,” she replied skeptically. “I did some checking earlier today after Jedidiah told us that he was flying you into town. He said you were from Nevada. If that’s true, why is there no record of you being a licensed private investigator in that state?”

Storm shrugged. “I’ve been meaning to get a license. I just haven’t gotten around to it.”

“
You
do
have a Nevada driver’s license though, right?”

Storm didn’t answer. She was supposed to be briefing him, not interrogating him. But Showers wasn’t about to stop now.

She said, “I checked the photos of all the Steve Masons who have Nevada driver’s licenses. You don’t look like any of them.”

Storm was disappointed. Jedidiah usually did a better job backstopping legends.

“I got a haircut,” he replied.

“I ran an FBI background check and there is nothing in any public record about a Steve Mason that fits your description. Who are you—really?”

Storm leaned in close and whispered, “I’m the man who’s been brought in to clean up your mess. That’s all you need to know.”

The waiter brought him his burger. Storm hadn’t realized how hungry he was. He took a big bite and another long gulp of cold beer.

In a resigned voice, Showers said, “What exactly do you need to know about the kidnapping?”

“Everything.”

Between bites, Storm questioned her. Showers elaborated on the basics that he’d already heard in Windslow’s office. Matthew Dull and Samantha Toppers had finished their last class for the day at Georgetown University and were walking across campus to get something to eat when a white van pulled to the curb and three attackers leaped from it. One fired an automatic weapon in the air to intimidate would-be heroes. He then pointed it directly into Topper’s terrified face. The other two assailants overpowered Dull and forced him into the van. The entire abduction had taken less than a minute.

“Why hasn’t this been all over the national news?” Storm asked.

“Strings were pulled. The media was told that it was a college prank. Georgetown officials went along. Said it was a fraternity gag that got out of hand.”

“What kind of automatic weapon was used?”

Showers opened a black leather briefcase that she had brought with her and removed a clear plastic bag that contained about a dozen brass shell casings.

“There were no fingerprints on them,” she said, putting the bag on the table.

Storm didn’t bother opening it as he finished the last bite of his burger. He’d seen enough 7.62 x 39mm ammunition casings to recognize them by sight.

“The assailant used an AK-47,” he said.

“Yes,” Showers replied, impressed. “Unfortunately, there are about seventy-five million AK-47s being used right now in the world. The Soviet Union did a hell of a job exporting them to every terrorist and revolutionary group in the world, as well as every nut in the U.S. who found a way, legally or illegally, to get his hands on a firearm capable of firing six hundred rounds a minute.”

“It sucks being Bambi nowadays.”

He smiled. She didn’t.

Storm said, “These guys went in fast, hard, deliberate, and left nothing behind that could be used to identify them. They were pros. Possibly ex-military.” He said, “Let’s see the ransom notes.”

She removed two letters from her briefcase. Both were protected in plastic. The first was written in block letters, similar to what a draftsman would use on blueprints.

“WE WILL KILL YOUR STEPSON UNLESS YOU PAY US $1,000,000.”

The note went on to order Windslow to pay the ransom in hundred-dollar bills. The cash was supposed to be placed in a briefcase left in the fast-food dining area of Union Station, the city’s major subway and Amtrak station, near Capitol Hill. The kidnappers had drawn a diagram on the note that pinpointed where the briefcase was to be left, underneath a table near a back wall. The ransom was supposed to be delivered by Dull’s fiancée.

“Samantha Toppers was terrified,” Showers said. “I kept telling her that she was fine. We had the entire train station flooded with agents—nearly a hundred—coming and going. We used interns and retired agents so the kidnappers wouldn’t have a clue who was a civilian and who wasn’t.”

“And no one showed up to grab the case?”

“No one showed any interest in it even after she walked away from that table.”

“I’m surprised. Not because of the kidnappers. But that you could leave a briefcase in Union Station without someone stealing it.”

Continuing her briefing, Showers said, “We found a partial print on the corner of that first note. There weren’t any prints on the second one. It arrived the next day.”

Like the first, the second ransom note was handwritten, but not in block letters. There was no mention of a ransom—only a cryptic threat.

“Your son dies if you continue toying with us.”

Storm said, “Obviously, these were written by different people. Not only is the handwriting different, so is the paper they used. The first note had a partial print on it. The second didn’t. There’s also an error in the second message. In the first, Dull is correctly described as Windslow’s stepson. In the second, he’s called his son.”

“Yes, I noticed those contradictions, too,” Showers replied. “But we know that at least four kidnappers were involved. One of them could have written the first note, and another the second, simply to throw us off. The same could be true about the discrepancies. They might have been intentional.”

Storm wasn’t so sure, but he decided to move on. “Tell me about Senator Windslow. Does he have many enemies?”

“Does he ever. He’s probably one of the most hated senators in Washington. He’s blunt and he’s been around so long that he’s untouchable. He knows it. He’s a bully, and when he doesn’t get what he wants, he gets angry—and he always gets even. Other politicians fear him. Even the White House. He has a reputation for being ruthless and vindictive.”

“Sounds like every politician I’ve known,” Storm said.

“No, Windslow is in a league of his own. You would expect Republicans to hate him because he’s a Democrat. But half the members of his own party can’t stand him. And that’s just on Capitol Hill. Outside of Congress, the groups that probably hate him the most are the environmentalists. Windslow is a shill for Big Oil. Always has been. He doesn’t believe in global warming, thinks oil companies should be able to drill holes anywhere they damn well please, and once voted against a bill that would have levied fines on visitors who littered in state parks.”

“It’s hard for me,” Storm replied, “to imagine that an armed gang of environmentalists kidnapped the senator’s stepson.”

“You asked me to identify his enemies. That’s what I’m doing. Being thorough.”

Storm called over the waiter and ordered another beer. “OK, besides the tree huggers, who’s next on the enemies list?”

“As chair of the Senate Intelligence Committee, Windslow wields tremendous power. He’s always been a strong advocate of Israel. That makes him hated by Middle Eastern extremists.”

“Any particular terrorist cell?”

“All of them despise him. He’s also managed to alienate the Russians, the Germans, and the Greeks. He’s a rabid anti-Communist and doesn’t trust the new Russian leaders; he believes all Germans are closet Nazis, and he dislikes socialist countries.”

“How can anyone hate the Greeks?” Storm asked. “All they ever do is break plates and spend Euros that they don’t have.”

Showers didn’t smile. “There’s also your people—the intelligence community. Senator Windslow and Jedidiah were all buddy-buddy tonight in the senator’s office, but there are rumors they’re fighting about a covert operation. And their dispute has gotten nasty.”

“What covert operation?”

“Don’t know. It’s above my pay grade. Maybe you can find out.”

“Do you honestly believe Jedidiah is behind the kidnapping?” Storm said skeptically.

“At this point, I’m not counting out anyone. I think you CIA types are capable of anything. Even your arrival here today could be part of a ruse.”

She finished her coffee and carefully placed the cup back on its saucer.

Although Showers had already given him a long list of suspects, Storm suspected she was holding back. He’d learned a long time ago that during interviews, it was the last thing that people told him that often held the most important clue.

“If our roles were reversed,” he said sympathetically, “I’d be pissed. I’d think, 'Who the hell does this guy think he is barging into my investigation?’I wouldn’t be as helpful as you have been just now. But a crime’s been committed, and there’s a chance that Matthew Dull may still be alive. We owe it to him to put all of our cards on the table, so if there is anything else that you can tell me, anything at all, please share it.”

He sounded sincere. He was very good at sounding sincere. It had always served him well—at work and in bed.

Showers sat quietly for a moment. “About a year ago, the bureau began hearing reports that Windslow was on the take. Bribes. Big ones. The first complaint came from a Texan who had bid on a lucrative military contract. One of Windslow’s staff members demanded a kickback. When the Texan refused, the contract went to another company. The Texan called us, but all we had was his word and that wasn’t enough—not to build a criminal indictment against a U.S. senator.”

“You began digging.”

She nodded. “I wasn’t going to let it go. I discovered Windslow was adding riders to legislation that permitted oil companies to move millions of dollars from their overseas operations into the U.S. without paying federal income taxes.”

“But that’s not illegal,” Storm said. “Senators screw with the IRS all the time to help out their friends.”

“Right. But I discovered that Windslow was collecting a fee based on how much money he helped the oil companies get back into the country tax-free. Or, I should say, I got several people to talk about kickbacks. But nothing on paper. Windslow is smart. And then I found a smoking gun. I discovered a wire transfer that I felt certain was a bribe paid to Windslow by someone overseas.”

“Who? A government, a corporation, an individual?”

“I’m not sure. Bribery is difficult to prove. The person who paid it isn’t going to talk. The person who got it isn’t going to talk. Most times, you can only make a criminal case if you have a money trail.”

Storm didn’t interrupt. He wanted her to keep talking. But he was very familiar with how bribes worked and how to hide them. He’d helped Jedidiah distribute millions of dollars in Iraq and Pakistan. The agency had handed out hundred-dollar bills as if they were Halloween candy—all unbeknownst to Congress and the American taxpayer.

Showers said, “I was able to trace a six-million-dollar payment from a London bank account to the Cayman Islands, where it was converted into cash and brought to Washington, D.C. I’m fairly certain it ended up in Windslow’s hands.”

“Fairly certain or positive?”

A pained look appeared on her face. His question had hit a nerve. She said, “I feel confident that I had developed a sufficient circumstantial case—enough to indict. But when my file reached the director’s office, it was put on ice. No one would tell me why. That was three weeks ago.”

Showers glanced at her watch. It was eleven and the restaurant was closing. She collected the two letters from him. “I’ve done what I was told,” she said. “I’ve briefed you. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at eight A.M. sharp. We have set up a command post at FBI headquarters. If you have additional questions, then you can ask them to my bosses tomorrow at the briefing.”

“I do have more questions,” he replied. “Since the restaurant is closing, let’s go upstairs to my suite so we can talk more.”

“I don’t think talk is what you have in mind.”

He grinned. “Depends on the kind of talk. At least let me walk you to your car.”

“I’m armed, and I think I can make it through the hotel lobby to the valet without your help.” Then, for the first time since they’d met, she actually smiled and said, “Besides, I think I have more to fear from you than I do from any strangers.”

“Ouch,” he replied, touching his heart as if he’d been shot. “Just trying to be gentlemanly,” he said, intentionally repeating her words.