Frontline (18 page)

“Wait, what? What do you mean
checked out
my apartment?”

Denim waves me off. “Oh, nothing. He just swept your apartment with this, like, black, palm-sized thingy
—checking for fingerprints, I assume.”

“But no one broke in.”

“Better safe than sorry, I guess.”

An uneasy feeling settles in my stomach. Was that why Trenton took me out in the hallway
—to distract me so Sean could look around my apartment? The thought that he kissed me solely to keep me preoccupied makes me ill. I pray it isn’t true, not after the way he looked at me . . . touched me . . .

A loud knock on the door startles us. With Trenton and his Tin Men gone, I fear it’s my landlord with an eviction notice.

I walk across the room and open the door. Kelly stands on the other side, looking very Vogue-esque with her high ponytail, full makeup, red tank top, black skirt, and high heels. She barges inside, holding a thick file folder.

“Nice to see you, too,” I say, shutting the door behind her.

She stops in the middle of the room and places her free hand on her hip. “Sara, thank God you dumped that Merrick creep yesterday.”

Denim and I exchange panicked glances.

“Why?” I wring my hands.

Kelly holds up the folder. “After my lecture this morning, I used my journalism sources and dug up some information on him out of curiosity.” She extends the file to me. “Brace yourself. You won’t believe what I found.”

“Kelly, where did you get this?” I eye the folder in my hand.

“A few months ago, while I was doing some research for my Literature and Politics class, I met a guy named Mike, who works at the
New York Times
and has contacts in the U.S. government. When my research on Merrick hit a dead end, I reached out to him and he was able to get me some additional access.”

“The U.S. government?”

“It’s all very strange. I mean, even with Mike’s help, I only made it so far. Sara, in order to access all of Merrick’s records, you need Level Eight clearance. Level Eight!”

I swallow hard. “That means nothing to me.”

“Let me make it clearer. That’s the top level of the U.S. government. Only people like the President, the Director of the CIA and the FBI, and other top U.S. officials can access those records. So either Merrick’s a member of one of those organizations—Homeland Security or whatever—or he’s a very powerful, dangerous criminal. Based on the content in that folder, I’m leaning toward the latter.”

My suspicions over Trenton’s head wound gnaw at me
—the same suspicions I refused to believe wholeheartedly over the last few days.

“If Trenton was a criminal, wouldn’t he be in jail?” Denim asks.

Kelly shrugs. “Read the folder and judge for yourself. Many powerful men have eluded the government before, despite the evidence against them. Or maybe the investigators are building a really good case against Merrick so they can come after him with full force. Whatever it is, Sara, I’m glad you got the hell away from him before he mixed you up in his shadiness.”

“What you did is illegal and immoral.” I hand the folder back to her. “I can’t invade Trenton’s privacy like this.”

Kelly’s eyes narrow. “I stuck my nose into places I shouldn’t have to get this information. The least you can do is look at it.”

“Why, just so you can gloat and say I told you so?” I shake my head. “No, thanks. Plus, it’s not like I asked you to do this.”

“Look at the information.”

“I’m not interested. Now, I really need to get some sleep, so
—”

“Sara, your life could be at stake,” Denim says, “and if that’s the case, you’ll need to sever ties with Merrick for good.”

I glare at her.

She blushes. “Oops.”

Kelly eyes me suspiciously. “I thought you did that already?”

“Well . . . not exactly.”

She throws the folder onto the coffee table. “I can’t believe you! After everything Merrick’s pulled, you’re giving him another chance?”

“Don’t start with me, Kelly. I’m tired and I really don’t need you telling me I’m an idiot for trusting the first guy that’s shown an interest in me since I moved to New York.”

Kelly motions to the folder on the table. “Look, I’m just trying to help.”

I sigh. It’s not her I’m angry at. I pride myself on being an independent and smart woman, but if Trenton has duped me, then I’m obviously nothing but naïve and stupid.

“Gosh, I hope Christopher’s not a criminal, too,” Denim says. “He’s too sexy to be the bad guy.”

Kelly tilts her head to the side. “Christopher Maida?”

Denim nods.

“He’s one of Merrick’s men,” Kelly says. “Don’t tell me you know him.”

“As of a few minutes ago,” Denim replies with a proud smile. “He was here with Merrick and a bunch of stiff suits.”

Kelly turns to me. “Sara, are you nuts? You let Merrick and his men into your apartment?”

And to think, she doesn’t even know about the gun incident.

I throw my hands up in the air. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, you two! You don’t know for sure if Trenton or his associates are criminals so stop jumping to conclusions!”

“Read the goddamn file, Sara.”

I huff. “Fine, if it’s going to get you off my back, I’ll read it.”

The folder feels like it’s cased in cement as I pick it up from the coffee table and sit down on the couch. Xerox copies stamped with the words
TOP SECRET
greet me inside. I see dates, times, flight numbers, and the names of cities all over the world, including many I’ve never heard of and cannot pronounce—nothing that damns Trenton as a criminal.

“I don’t understand what I’m looking at here.” I peer up at Denim and Kelly, who hover over me.

“Those are Merrick’s travel records in recent years,” Kelly says, tightening her ponytail. “It’s the photographic evidence that’s most disconcerting, though. And those are only some of the photos I came across. The rest were password protected or encrypted so I couldn’t reproduce them.”

I flip past the written documents to several black and white photos placed at the bottom of the pile. I scan the first few and notice they’re dated in the bottom corner
—January 24th. Just over four months ago.

The images are stacked in sequence. If I flip through them quickly, they would look like a silent film, each movement precisely photographed as if the surveillance team didn’t want to miss one tiny detail.

In the first twenty or so, Trenton descends from an unmarked airplane parked on a tarmac. He wears a long, dark pea coat, collar up. It’s snowing hard and his eyes and mouth are tight, indicating a cold wind. Even at his angriest over the last few days, he’s never looked this intimidating.

I flip to the five subsequent photos. Denim takes in a sharp breath. Christopher exits the plane and follows Trenton down the stairs, wearing a similar outfit and carrying a briefcase. His expression looks steel-hard and grim
—although, unlike Trenton, his eyes are hidden behind aviator sunglasses.

The photos look as though they were taken without Trenton and Christopher’s awareness.

“Those were shot in Moscow,” Kelly says. “According to Merrick’s travel log, he and Christopher, as well as one pilot—no registered co-pilot, I might add—took off from a private airfield in Long Island, made a one and a half hour stop in London to refuel, and then continued to Russia. They landed in Moscow for only an hour before returning stateside. It’s unclear what Trenton’s business was in Russia—or if the government knows, they aren’t putting it in writing.”

My hands tremble as I flip to the next photo.

A limousine pulls up to the airplane. Six men wearing long coats and sunglasses emerge. They stand together, their hands tucked into their jackets as though they’re prepared to pull out guns.

In the next several images, Trenton and Christopher approach them, looking calm and confident. The back door of the limousine opens. A man with long gray hair, tied in a frayed ponytail that stretches from beneath a fur hat, ducks out.

I flip to the next photo where the mystery man’s face is revealed. High cheekbones jut from beneath sunken eyes, surrounding a long, hooked nose. A thin, wispy beard carpets his jaw.

My eyes widen.

“I recognize that man,” I say, pointing to him in the photo.

Denim gasps. “What?”

“From the news, you mean?” Kelly says.

I frown, studying his face. “No . . . I dunno . . . maybe. Somehow I just know this isn’t the first time I’ve seen him. Why, who is he?”

“Alexander Kedrov,” Kelly replies, “one of the United States’ most dangerous adversaries—a terrorist, Sara. Unfortunately, there’s no evidence linking him directly to any seized shipments, but the government believes he’s neck deep in the arms trade. They’ve been keeping tabs on him for over four decades. His file dates back to Hoover’s time.”

I recall Trenton’s sword collection, his high-tech security, and Sean and Christopher’s guns.

Arms dealer. Terrorist.

That’s all I need.

“Sara, are you saying you might know a Russian terrorist?” Denim says.

“I don’t know him personally. He just looks familiar.”

“Do you remember any details of where you might’ve seen him before?” Kelly’s journalism background once again rears its ugly head.

I roll my eyes. “Okay,
Woodward
, let me think for a minute.”

Kedrov’s name doesn’t ring a bell. Perhaps I saw his face in a newspaper or on the television years ago.

“Nope, sorry,” I say. “I’m guessing on CNN or something.”

Kelly frowns.

I scan the rest of the photos.

Christopher hands Kedrov the briefcase.

He and Trenton retreat to the plane.

Kedrov and his men get back in the limousine.

The limo drives away.

The plane takes off.

The images end there. Thankfully, there’s no Trenton Merrick mug shot in the stack.

But the file doesn’t conclude with the photos.

There are a few papers placed behind them. The first lists Trenton’s basic information: his date of birth, addresses throughout the world, height, weight, driver’s license number . . .

His social security number is blank.

Credit history and bank account numbers: blank.

Kelly leans over me. “Those fields you see that are vacant or incomplete can only be accessed with Level Eight government clearance. I read Merrick’s high school and university transcripts and all about his charitable donations over the years, but other basic stuff like his birth certificate, health insurance, social security number, credit history, and previous tax returns, are all sealed. They exist, but someone is going all-out to ensure they can’t be accessed easily.”

“Trenton is a successful businessman, so I’m not surprised you can’t access everything on him,” I say. “It’s probably a protective measure to prevent fraud or whatever.”

“If he’s not hiding something or mixed up in some shady business dealings, why would the government have a file on him with classified material?” Kelly says. “And why would they take surveillance photos of him and track his travels? And how do you explain his encounter with Alexander Kedrov?”

I hold up my hand. “Okay, okay, I get it. But Trenton Merrick—a terrorist? Even with the information in this folder, I find that a stretch. He hung out with CNN on a charitable mission to Haiti for God’s sake. He’s a CEO—a financial celebrity.”

“You’re blinded by his money, good looks, and fame,” Kelly says. “Come on, Sara, you’re a smart woman. Surely you see how strong the evidence is against him.”

“Is there anything else on Christopher in there?” Denim’s eyes sparkle.

It seems I’m not the only one who isn’t appalled by the folder’s content.

Kelly takes the folder from me. She flips to the last few pages I didn’t get to and reads their contents aloud.

“Sergeant Major Christopher Ryan Maida, born February 6th, 1982 in Long Island, New York. Mother, Linda Maida, previously Linda Wilson. Father, Robert Maida. Graduate of the Long Island Flight School at the age of nineteen, honors student, rowing and polo champion in high school, blah, blah, blah . . .”

Kelly’s face brightens. “Okay, here’s where it gets interesting, not to mention completely bizarre and impossible. Maida’s military education includes a Basic Noncommissioned Officer’s Course, Advanced Noncommissioned Officer’s Course, M1/M1A1 Tank Master Gunner Course, Master Fitness Trainer Course, Battle Staff Noncommissioned Officer’s Course, and attendance at the United States Army Sergeant Major Academy.”

Denim grins. “Wow, Christopher’s done all that?”

“His resume rivals the Sergeant Major of the U.S. Army, and he’s only thirty years old!” Kelly says. “How on earth did he receive all of that training and earn a senior title in only a few years? Don’t you find that fishy? And what’s more perplexing is his active duty history doesn’t exist. As far as his records are concerned, Maida was never sent off to fight for his country anytime, anywhere. If that’s the case, it’s an insult to our deployed Armed Forces—the men and women who really do put their lives at risk for our country and earn their ranks!”

“That’s crazy,” Denim says. “Christopher’s records are probably protected if he’s such a high ranking officer.”

Kelly skims the next few pages. “And there’s information on Sean Mavis in this folder, too—the guy I argued with outside your work, Sara. I recognized his photo when looking through Merrick’s file and did a little digging on him as well. His background is as impressive and farfetched as Christopher’s, and just as top secret. They’re highly trained military personnel, so why the hell are they working for Merrick if he’s only a run-of-the-mill businessman?”

“Trenton said he’s known them since they were kids,” I say. “They grew up together.”

Kelly shakes her head. “What I’m saying is their education was
accelerated.
They were trained for a purpose. It also says Trenton, Christopher, and Sean are members of MENSA, but they don’t just satisfy the minimal requirements. They’re proven
mega
-geniuses. For example, not only are they fluent in French, Italian, and Spanish, but also more exotic languages like Russian, Arabic, Cantonese, Mandarin, Japanese, Dutch, Hungarian, German, and Hebrew. That’s not normal, no matter how rich or cultured a person is. The Rosetta Stone isn’t even that fluent!”

I stand from the couch. “Trenton is a businessman with clientele all over the world, so it’s not a stretch that he and his men would learn a variety of languages. Anyway, we shouldn’t be reading this. Shred the files, do whatever you have to do, just get rid of them.”