“Won’t the feds be doing the same thing?”
“Yes, they have the other pens. But they’ll be concentrating on fertilizer purchases, fuel oil, van rentals, the litany of items in the vicinity of Federal Reserve property. They’ll be all over the network chatter trying to intercept the bombs. Khoury’s role is over for them, and unless there’s some hit to a terrorist cell or handler, they’ll focus on other areas. Not on rescuing his family.”
“This doesn’t seem like much to go on,” Sidney said. “You know where the guy lived, but you don’t know where they’ve taken his body.”
“I’m looking for a link to the wife and child. Where’d they live before? Who else knew them?”
Sullivan reached out his hand. “Let me see that.”
Mullins gave him the bag containing the insulin pen.
“What are these little white cones?”
“Packaging for the needles. You dial up the dose and use the pen till it’s empty. You cap it with a sterile needle for each injection.”
Sullivan held the clear bag up to the light and looked at the needles’ silhouettes in their protective plastic. “I wonder if the pen is tamper-proof.”
“Nothing’s tamper-proof,” Mullins said. “What are you thinking?”
“The M. E. reported a shaving nick under Luguire’s jaw. A styptic pencil had been used to stem the bleeding. But I noticed an electric shaver in his bathroom. Further examination revealed the wound to be a needle puncture. I’d like to make a comparison.”
Sidney rubbed his palms back and forth on his thighs in excitement. “Luguire was murdered by insulin? That’s impossible to trace, isn’t it?”
“No,” Sullivan said. “Now we have tests for blood and urine, even from a corpse. Mystery writers love it, but it’s not a very efficient method. Too unpredictable.”
“Does everybody know that?” Sidney asked.
“No. I’m sure most of the general public still thinks it’s an untraceable murder weapon. And that might be the point of using one of these.” He tapped the pen with his forefinger. “Use it as the delivery device. If there was no insulin found, then its absence proved it had to be the murder weapon.”
“And by focusing on insulin, you’d miss something else,” Mullins said.
“Yes,” Sullivan said. “But we’ve already found it. Norketamine, the chemical left from the breakdown of ketamine. Ketamine’s a pain killer that creates a state of euphoria. Makes you feel like your mind’s detached from your body. It also generates numbness and a loss of mobility. The substance is difficult to trace. Because I wasn’t smart enough to have suspected the puncture wound to be from an insulin pen, I ordered broader and more extensive tests.”
“Then ketamine would make Luguire controllable,” Mullins said. “He wrote what he was told, but had the presence of mind to slip in ‘as tough ass nails.’”
“And the use of a pen would be one more link to Fares Khoury,”
Sidney said.
Mullins nodded. “Or me, if I’m supposed to be in the conspiracy with him.”
Sullivan let out a deep breath and set the Ziploc bag on the sofa beside Mullins. “So, while Homeland Security and the FBI are saving the country, we’re supposed to save Khoury’s wife and daughter using a photograph, a lock of hair, and an insulin pen? That’s all you’ve got?”
“I’ve got you and Sidney. And I’ve got a name. Asu.”
“Asu. Is that a first or last?” Sullivan asked.
“First. He’s Syrian, and Khoury told me he’s the man that initially approached him. Khoury thought I was holding his family hostage. That information came from Asu. If Asu doesn’t have them, he knows who does.”
“Do the feds have Asu’s name?”
“Yes. So monitor the law enforcement channels for any requests for information on him. I also think we should start our own search in Miami.”
“Why?”
“It’s close to the town of Sunrise and big enough for Asu to have resources and space to hide. There’s also Miami International Airport, a quick exit out of the country.”
“You want me to float that name out as well?” Sidney asked.
“No, someone could be monitoring for hits on the name. Let Sullivan concentrate on Asu. I think your first inclination to inquire about a link between Luguire and Archer is good. Something to get your conspiracy theorists chattering.”
“Okay. I’ll work tonight. The Internet never sleeps.”
Mullins turned to Sullivan. “You okay with this?”
“I get the picture. Right now the number of people we can trust are the three of us and your contact to the federal agencies.”
“That’s the size of it.”
Sullivan pursed his lips, and then looked at Sidney. “You’re the Federal Reserve expert. Mullins alluded to this cyber-security breach as a possible reason for Luguire’s murder. Is there any other motive?”
“Not as compelling as someone circumventing the process of transferring money. The other hot issue is the Federal Reserve itself. With an election year and tough economy, the Fed’s a lightning rod. Luguire was set to testify before Congress this week. President Brighton supports the Fed but if he loses re-election, it could be curtailed, subjugated to greater oversight, or dismantled entirely. And I’m not saying that would be a bad thing.”
“But the more likely scenario is a terrorist attack with internal tentacles?” Sullivan asked.
“Definitely,” Sidney said. “The Fed is seen as the funding source of every deficit-financed war or invasion, which is basically all of them for the last one hundred years. By lashing out at the Fed, they’re lashing out at the heart of our capitalistic system.”
“All right.” Sullivan looked back at Mullins. “Then I’m satisfied we let the FBI, Secret Service, and Homeland Security work on the big picture.”
“When do you have to issue another report on Luguire’s death?” Mullins asked.
“I can say I need through the weekend. A few more interviews. Other than Sidney, everyone else has written it off as a suicide. I’ll keep the M. E. quiet about his findings.”
“Then let’s get started. We have two days. That’s not much time.” Mullins held up the picture of the Khoury family. “Especially for this little girl and her mother.”
Zaina lay on the bed beside her daughter. The room was dark with only a trickle of light from the outside street lamps leaking around the window shade. The audio from the television in the living room floated as a constant murmur, unintelligible because Chuchi had thoughtfully lowered the volume when Zaina told him she was going to sleep.
But she hadn’t slept. She forced herself to stay awake, mentally clicking off the hours and listening for her chance. The signal finally came in short, raspy bursts. Chuchi’s snoring as he dozed in the chair. Zaina waited until she heard the sounds settle into the rhythm of surf breaking on a beach.
She slid off the bed, careful not to wake Jamila. If the child found she was gone, she’d cry out. Zaina tip-toed to the door and turned the knob. The hinges squealed as she opened it just enough to slide through.
The glow from the television illuminated Chuchi asleep in the chair with his head lolled to one side and his mouth open. Zaina stared at his belt. The phone holster was empty. She glanced at the apartment’s front door. The deadbolt was surely locked and the key tucked in Chuchi’s front pocket. She could never hope to retrieve it without waking him.
She glided past him, thankful that the apartment’s cheap carpeting muffled her footsteps. The kitchen flooring posed the greater problem. Worn linoleum did little to keep the subfloor from creaking, and the first groan sounded like a tree snapping in half. Zaina froze. She heard Chuchi shift in the chair. But he would have to get up and turn around before he could see her.
In the gloom, she made out the shape of his phone still charging on the counter. Chuchi had left an empty glass between it and the sink.
The snoring resumed. Zaina slid her feet across the floor as if skating. She snatched up the phone, leaving it attached to the power cord. She knew some models chirped when disconnected. She couldn’t remember if Chuchi’s phone beeped when a number on the keypad was pressed, but she only needed three. 911.
She pressed the power button and the screen flared to life. In the dark kitchen, it shone like a searchlight. Zaina pressed the face of the phone against her abdomen. Then she tilted it enough to place her thumbs on the keypad.
The lock rattled in the front door.
Zaina dropped the phone back on the counter and grabbed the empty glass. She held it under the faucet and ran the water just long enough to fill it a few inches.
The door opened. Zaina couldn’t suppress a sob as she recognized the slim silhouette entering the apartment.
Asu flipped on the overhead light and Chuchi snorted as he awoke.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Chuchi mumbled something, but Asu looked past him to where Zaina stood trembling in the kitchen.
“You bitch!” He charged forward, sweeping her aside with such force that she crashed into the refrigerator. The glass of water shattered on the floor.
Asu snatched up the phone. The screen was still lit. “Who did you call?”
“No one. I came for water.” She pointed to the damp floor and broken shards.
“You take me for a fool? It’s turned on.”
“It must be fully charged,” Chuchi said. “It always lights up when it’s finished charging.”
Chuchi looked to Zaina and the fear in his eyes terrified her. “I came for water,” she sobbed. “I wouldn’t risk Fares not getting our house.”
Chuchi edged closer to Asu. “See. It says fully charged.”
“We’ll see.” Asu opened the folder marked “Recent Calls.” He scrolled to “View All Calls” and checked the list.
“That number,” Chuchi said. “That’s yours. The last call came from you. Nothing has gone out.”
Asu shoved the phone into Chuchi’s stomach. “That was stupid. Don’t let it happen again.” He turned to Zaina. “As for you, I’m glad to see you understand that betraying me would be betraying your husband.” He smiled, but his eyes stayed lifeless. “I have good news. You will see him soon. We are going to meet him in Washington. We will leave before dawn, as soon as I have a few hours sleep.”
“Thank you,” Zaina murmured.
“Go back to your daughter. Chuchi will clean this up. It was his fault.”
Zaina closed the bedroom door. She stood for a moment, unsure what to do. Her mind kept jumping between two images, both of Chuchi. One was the fear on his face as he watched Asu check the phone. The other was the fear on his face when he learned Asu had told her his name. It was the second image that scared her the most.
She crept to the far side of the room where Jamila’s backpack sat in the corner. She unzipped the pocket containing a small box of crayons and Jamila’s Little Mermaid coloring book. She visualized the landing on the ground floor. The row of mailboxes for her wing of the apartment complex. But she wasn’t sure if what she needed was there.
She pulled a dark crayon from the box, unsure of the color in the low light. She flipped to the back of the book and tore out the last page as quietly as she could.
At four in the morning, Chuchi led the way down the stairs. Zaina held Jamila asleep in her arms. Asu brought up the rear, his right hand tucked under the left lapel of his sport coat.
A single fixture illuminated the ground floor landing and the exit to the street. Zaina saw the row of mailboxes on the right. She slowed her descent, scanning the wall with growing desperation.
“Hurry,” Asu ordered.
There it was. Zaina lurched forward as if Asu’s command physically propelled her. She stumbled on the bottom step, and as she fell against the wall, she pinched Jamila’s leg.
The child woke with a cry.
“Shut her up.” Asu jerked his head in the direction of the door.
Zaina steadied herself against the wall and regained her balance.
“Sshh,” she whispered to her daughter. “Everything’s okay. Mommy’s here.”
Asu ushered them out of the building.
He never noticed the folded paper barely visible in the slot of the box labeled outgoing mail.
Mullins sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the pile of clothes on the floor. He’d dropped them when, at two in the morning, he’d been too exhausted to do anything but fall across the mattress.
Four hours of dreamless sleep did little to physically recharge him. His knees and shoulders felt stiff from the long days of driving. But his mind fired on all cylinders. The previous week’s events played back and forth like scenes in a movie yet to be edited. Yet to be sequenced.
Cause and effect. What triggered what? Luguire’s death. Archer’s death. Khoury’s death.
He looked at the nightstand where he kept the oak-framed picture of Laurie and Kayli. His daughter had just finished second grade. Laurie was no more than thirty, vibrant and healthy. Mullins loved the photograph for their smiles. The occasion had been Kayli’s “fly-up” from Daisy to Brownie. For her, the simple ceremony had been no less dazzling than the Academy Awards.
Mullins’ success with the Secret Service’s presidential detail had depended upon reading faces and reacting with split-second timing to any cue of danger: a twitch, an eye shift, a clenched jaw. But these two faces that he loved shone with undiminished joy, connecting him to memories bittersweet to recall.
“Why, Laurie?” He picked up the photograph. “Why aren’t you here when I need you the most?”
There was no answer. Just his wife’s frozen smile.
He set the picture back and headed for the shower.
***
Kayli brought her father a third mug of coffee. He sat at her kitchen table, a half-eaten slice of toast on the plate in front of him. She’d listened to his story without interrupting, even though the murders of Archer and Khoury generated fear for his safety.
Mullins took a sip of the refill. “So, my investigative team is now me, a washed-up journalist, and a local detective who seems to be hours away from retirement.”
Kayli sat in the chair across from him. “And you don’t think Amanda will prioritize the mother and child?”
“No. She can’t. Once the facts are fed to the anti-terrorism network, the priority will be preventing the attacks. If leads to the bomb or this Asu character also uncover their whereabouts, then fine. But I’m not sure Amanda will elicit much sympathy for their plight. Khoury did collect materials for a bomb.”
“Why just Amanda? Why weren’t you debriefed?”
“For one thing, I’d still be trapped in an incessant process of interviews, especially since my name’s linked to Khoury’s bank account. When Amanda talks to Rudy Hauser, he might want to pull me in or he might agree with our recommendation to leave me loose so that no one’s tipped off. But I wouldn’t be surprised if I were under surveillance.”
“That could be a good thing. You shouldn’t be a lone wolf.”
Mullins laughed. “Don’t forget my two sidekicks.”
“Yeah. The washed-up reporter and the cop on Social Security.”
“They’re sharper than I painted them. Detective Sullivan’s experienced with good instincts and Sidney Levine’s a persistent jackass, the kind of reporter I despise except when we’re on the same side. They’re each working all the angles they can access.”
“What are you going to do?”
Mullins looked around the kitchen as if it harbored something crucial to his plan. “How much longer do you think Josh will sleep?”
Kayli glanced at the clock over the sink. “Seven-thirty now. He should stay down for another half hour.”
“When does Don Beecham leave for work?”
“Most days he goes in early. He probably left around seven. Why?”
“I’d like to talk with him. Do you have his direct number?”
“No. Sandy would. And she has his cell.”
Mullins hesitated, unsure how many people to involve.
Kayli read his mind. “Sandy won’t ask any questions, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Kayli rose from the table.
“Wait. I need you to help me with something else while Josh is asleep.”
“Okay.”
“Set up the video camera. I want to record my story here in the kitchen. Then I want you and Josh to check into a hotel at least through Saturday. You’ll disable your phone and talk to no one.”
“You’re scaring me, Dad.”
“I sure hope so.”
***
Mullins sat at his dining room table and carefully sealed the DVD in a bubble-wrap envelope. Then he wrote Kayli’s return address in the upper-left-hand corner. Although the U.S. Postal Service should be as secure as any delivery system, Mullins decided to use a contact in the Pentagon to expedite the package directly into military jurisdiction without a mailbox drop. He could take care of that detail on his way to a noon meeting with Sullivan and Sidney at Sidney’s apartment.
He pulled the pre-paid cellphone from his jacket and unfolded the slip of paper on which Kayli had written Don Beecham’s numbers. Remembering that Amanda Church preferred to use the secure line at her desk, Mullins dialed Beecham’s office.
“Beecham.” The man sounded distracted.
“This is Rusty Mullins. Don’t mention my name. Are you alone?”
“Yes. But I’m finishing an email for the Hill. Can I call you back?”
“How long do you need?”
“Five minutes.”
“I’ll call you.” Mullins hung up.
Precisely five minutes later, Beecham answered on the first ring. “I’m alone with the door closed. What’s this about?”
Mullins shifted the phone to his left hand and prepared to take notes on a yellow legal pad. “I’m not asking you to divulge confidential information, but I need you to keep this conversation confidential.”
“Does this have anything to do with Paul Luguire?”
“Yes. You told me you were working with Luguire on his testimony for Congress. Can you tell me the nature of that testimony?”
Beecham hesitated. “Well, I shouldn’t but if it can help.” He laughed softly. “This is ironic as hell. It’s secret testimony about transparency.”
“Regarding the Federal Reserve?”
“Yes.”
Mullins jotted “transparency” on his pad. “Why hide a hearing on transparency?”
“To keep the markets from reacting to rumors of possible changes and to keep the lobbyists and financial institutions from killing any ideas before they’re fairly examined. The issue’s extremely volatile. On the one hand, we’ve got a viable presidential candidate charging the Federal Reserve Chairman with treason, and on the other hand, Federal Reserve proponents exert tremendous pressure to keep things just the way they are.”
Mullins thought about his conversation with Sidney Levine. “Hasn’t it always been that way? The bankers claim they need secrecy to keep politics out of the money supply, and the populists claim we’ve sold our soul and our children’s future to the greatest con game in history.”
“You’re right,” Beecham agreed. “But the leverage has always sided with the Federal Reserve because most people and financial institutions want stability. Then the market and real estate crash of 2008 shifted the balance and the Tea Party launched a full-frontal assault. Facts got trampled in a rush to find a scapegoat.”
Mullins felt he was getting the Fed’s party line. “A scapegoat whose secrecy begs for scrutiny.”
Beecham cleared his throat. “Look. I concede the point. That’s why change is coming.”
“Through these transparency hearings?”
“Luguire, Chairman Radcliffe, other executives and select board members are being questioned on their assessment of what more transparency would do to the financial markets.”
“So, Congress is pressing the issue?” Mullins asked.
“Actually the courts set the stage. In 2011, they forced the Federal Reserve to reveal which banks were given bailout funds, and the number of foreign banks appearing on that list set off a tidal wave of outrage. For nearly a hundred years, the banking relationships, both domestic and foreign, were closely guarded to protect the identity of institutions needing emergency funds.”
“Then who approves the loans?”
“All twelve regional banks are empowered to make loans to undisclosed recipients. It protects consumer confidence, and in some cases, prevents an unjustified run on a bank.”
Mullins wrote “U.S. taxpayers subsidizing foreign banks” on his sheet of paper. “And the Federal Reserve provides funds to foreign banks by issuing U.S. debt and we don’t even know which countries are benefiting?”
“Like I said, the Fed was authorized to operate with independence so its decisions were removed from politics, both domestic and foreign.”
“And from basic oversight and audits. Could some central banks of other countries be embarrassed by their involvement with our central bank?”
“Yes. I guess. I’m not privy to that information. I’m focused strictly on relations with Congress.”
Mullins wrote down Luguire’s name. “And Paul Luguire, what did he think about the transparency issue?”
“Personally, he was for more open communication. So is Chairman Radcliffe.”
“So, you were expecting the shit to hit the fan if the chairman reversed one hundred years of Federal Reserve practices. I suspect some foreign banks and their governments wouldn’t want their financial dealings with the United States made public. Might not play well with the people back home.”
“Banks and governments are also people. People with power. The question I try to remember isn’t who stands to gain from any rule change but who stands to lose? And what will they do to protect their interests?”
Beecham’s statement forced Mullins to examine Paul Luguire’s death from two opposing viewpoints: persons, organizations, or governments unknown hell-bent on destroying the Federal Reserve and persons, organizations, or governments unknown hell-bent on keeping its operations in the shadows.
“What has Luguire’s death done to the secret hearings?” Mullins asked.
“Delayed them a week. I was working on a confidential email regarding the schedule when you called.”
“Does Luguire’s death change the direction the hearings will take?”
“No. Paul Luguire had a reputation for analytical pragmatism. The chairman wanted Luguire’s voice heard, but his testimony wouldn’t make or break the outcome of the hearings.” Beecham paused. “Are you thinking that Luguire was killed to stop him from testifying?”
“Not really. Especially given what you’ve told me. I appreciate your candor.”
“I liked Luguire. I want to know the truth of what happened. But please keep our conversation between us. I shouldn’t have told you what I did.”
“I understand the hearings are secret.”
Beecham lowered his voice. “Do you know Amanda Church?”
The question caught Mullins off-guard. “A long time ago. We worked together at Treasury.”
“She came by my office earlier this morning. Said she knew I was friends with your daughter. She wanted to know if I’d seen you. If you seemed all right.”
“Did she say why?”
“She said you were close to Luguire. She was worried about you, but that technically you were a person of interest in the investigation of his death. If she contacted you, it could be viewed as inappropriate.”
“What did you tell her?”
Beecham laughed. “That you seemed fine to me. But then I don’t know you as a trained Secret Service agent. I only know you as Josh’s Paw Paw.”
“Thanks. Paw Paw is a much more rewarding occupation. We’ll have to take the boys to another ballgame soon.”
“I’d like that. Good luck, Rusty.”
Mullins laid the phone on the table. Interesting that Amanda Church had come to Don Beecham. She was covering all the bases, making sure people within the Federal Reserve believed they weren’t working together. Their plan depended upon preserving the illusion that the plot hadn’t been uncovered. That Khoury hadn’t talked, and the investigation had stalled.
Mullins studied his legal pad. The sparse notes from his conversation with Beecham had been unconsciously written in two columns. He labeled one as Pro-Fed and the other, Anti-Fed. Pro-Fed included people and even countries adverse to Luguire’s planned testimony. To what lengths would they go in order to protect their interests? According to Beecham, killing Luguire wasn’t one of them. His role wasn’t that crucial. Others might think differently.
On the Anti-Fed side, Mullins circled “Transparency” and “Outrage.” The words fueled a domestic opposition that may or may not be violent. And there was a line of foreign terrorists who would love to launch an assault on the bastion of American capitalism.
Foreign or domestic, Pro-Fed or Anti-Fed, the only thing Mullins knew for certain was that three men were dead, a woman and child were held hostage, and the makings of a bomb powerful enough to rival the Oklahoma City disaster had been assembled and transported from Staunton, Virginia.
If Fares Khoury was telling the truth, eleven duplicates were heading toward their destinations, and a thirteenth target, unknown and possibly unprotected, was out there with Mullins’ name assigned as its executioner.