For the third time, Sidney Levine cruised Q Street in search of a parking space. After six in the evening, something should have opened. Nearby Georgetown University was on summer schedule, the employees of those retail shops on Wisconsin Avenue that closed at six on Fridays should be leaving, and the social elite who lived in the more expensive townhouses should either be heading out of the city for the weekend or have their Beamers and Benzs in garages.
Sidney’s basement apartment didn’t come with a garage or even a designated parking spot. He had to fend for himself to find curb room for his 1999 Ford Escort. Finally, four blocks from his address, he snaked into a space vacated by a limo. Not so bad, except the hike to his building was all uphill.
He’d spent the day outside of Manassas, Virginia, on a farm, one of the new breed that eschewed chemical fertilizers and growth hormones for open pasture grazing and crop rotation. He hoped his freelance assignment would expand beyond one article to a series on the explosion of local farmers’ markets. He knew people in the District who drove forty-five miles for home-cured hams and grass-fed beef. The craze to buy local wasn’t just reserved for vegans and health-food nuts.
Sidney stopped halfway to his apartment and caught his breath. Thirty-eight, paunchy, and out of shape, he winded easily. He carried a backpack slung over one shoulder. It held his Nikon, digital voice recorder, and journals that he used for taking notes. The strap cut into him and he switched the load to his other side. He checked the bottom of his shoes for any trace of his barnyard excursion, something he should have done before getting in his car. As a guy who grew up Jewish in Greenwich Village, he knew his way around a farm like he knew his way around a nunnery.
He walked the rest of the distance slowly, wondering whether the Chinese take-out in his fridge would still be edible. He used the back entrance, a flight of outside stairs to the basement, because it was closer to his apartment. He’d check his mailbox in the lobby later.
Classical music sounded from the other side of his door. No one was home, no one meaning his sometimes girlfriend Colleen who had a key. The FM station provided his security alarm, an attempt to convince a would-be intruder that someone was inside. Colleen would have immediately switched the station to hard rock.
Sidney turned on his laptop before he turned on a light. He wanted to transfer the factual data from his interview notes along with the sensory impressions still fresh in his mind. If he finished in an hour, he’d ditch the Chinese leftovers and walk to Clyde’s bar in Georgetown for a burger. Friday night, he might get lucky. Some women still found reporters exciting. Some desperate women.
He grabbed a beer and heard multiple pings as his email program loaded. That morning he’d forgotten his cellphone charging by the bed, and on the drive down and back, he opted for CDs rather than news radio. He’d been out of the loop all day. Something must have fired up his cadre of Internet followers.
Sidney sat at the keyboard and quickly scrolled through a list of new messages. All were from anti-Fed zealots and each subject line contained Paul Luguire’s name. A sampling generated a range of words like death, suicide, murder, assassination, and liquidation—the more extreme ones coming from those elements Sidney considered nut jobs.
He jumped to the web site of
The Washington Post.
The story had been filed after press deadline and so was labeled Breaking News for the on-line edition. The quote “apparent suicide” from the Arlington Police Department muted Sidney’s initial adrenaline rush. Even high-ranking Federal Reserve executives had personal problems. He didn’t know much about Luguire other than the Fed Chairman had promoted him last year to a new position as the chief link between the Fed and Treasury Department. Luguire wasn’t the public face to Congress or Wall Street like Chairman Radcliffe, but he would be privy to all the inner workings of the Board of Governors, a high enough player to set conspiracy-prone fanatics honking like startled geese.
Sidney moved from
The Washington Post
to the web site of
The Washington Times
. The woman who had replaced him on the economy beat had the same basic information with one additional detail. The “apparent suicide” quote was attributed to an Arlington homicide detective named Robert Sullivan.
He clicked back to his email. More than a hundred people wanted to know his take on Luguire’s death. The irony struck him that the book that had cost him his job had created these Frankenstein monsters who now stalked him for his opinions on everything from President Kennedy’s assassination to Queen Elizabeth’s plan to rule the world. He glanced at the bookshelf above the laptop. Six of the volumes had the same title:
The Secret Revolution of 1913—How Bankers Stole America!
His layman’s look at the Federal Reserve was meant to be provocative, but balanced. He’d had no clout over what the publisher chose to call it.
He got caught up in the conspiratorial currents of the anti-Fed and Occupy Wall Street movements, made the mistake of playing to them as book sales soared, and then found his credibility shredded by association. Like a politician receiving the endorsement of Castro or the Klan, the more he denied them, the stronger the perceived connection. And then the Establishment, the proponents of the status quo, and those legitimately attacked in his book hammered him down with accusations of bias and fringe journalism. His editor at the newspaper caved and Sidney found himself undone by his own success.
Still the book and these paranoid characters who embraced it paid his rent. He had to respond. But he would respond on his terms and with his standards. He was a journalist, albeit one in need of rehabilitation.
He started his blog. “No rumors. No speculation. No opinion. No coverup. Today I begin my personal investigation into the death of Paul Luguire.”
“Let’s drive. We can’t just sit here in the car.” Without asking Amanda’s permission, Mullins powered up his Prius and backed out of the parking space.
“Where to?” she asked.
“Anywhere till we’ve talked this through. I think better on the move. Then I’ll bring you to your car in Alexandria.”
He paid the parking attendant, exited, and maneuvered through the Clarendon side streets until he was on Washington Boulevard. When he realized he was unconsciously following the route to Luguire’s office, he swung up the ramp to I-395 South.
“I want to head away from the city where there’s less chance someone will see us together,” he said.
“Good idea,” Amanda agreed. “I keep thinking if that transaction hadn’t been flagged, there’s no way this would have come to light.”
Mullins glanced at his passenger. She laid her head against the side window, eyes staring intently at something seen only in her mind.
“Do you think I’m involved?” he asked.
“Do you think I’d be alone with you in this car if I did?”
“Yes. If you had backup and wore a wire.”
She turned and smiled. “Why, Mr. Mullins, are you trying to pat me down?”
“No. I’m trying to figure out why I’m not your main suspect.”
“Because you’re not smart enough.”
“Ouch.”
“And you’re not stupid enough.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. Explain please.”
“My work at Treasury centered on ECSAP.”
“I’m not that familiar with it. I was still on presidential detail when that stuff came down.”
“The Electronic Crimes Special Agent Program grew out of ECTF, the Electronic Crimes Task Force created by the Patriot Act.”
Mullins nodded. “I remember. One of those ‘we’re all in this together’ initiatives.”
“Don’t be so cynical. It did unite federal, state, and local law enforcement in investigating cyber attacks on our financial institutions. We felt it was better housed in the Secret Service than in some closet within the FBI.”
“I’ll buy that. So, because I wasn’t part of ECSAP I’m not smart enough?”
“No. It’s because I was part of ECSAP. And I know I’m not smart enough. You might be smarter than me, but not by that much. I was in case management and the geeks I supervised may as well have been Martians for all we had in common. I mean they were into this stuff, not just computers, but cellphones, PDAs, anything that could create a potential attack, gain illicit access, or game the financial system in some way.”
“You’re saying this was an inside job?” Mullins put on his blinker for the Shirlington exit.
“At first I thought it was an inside Laurel job. That the bank president, Craig Archer, or someone close to him had obtained the two-hundred-twenty-one-thousand dollars through fraudulent means. Somehow gotten classified codes for the Fed’s end of the transaction. Then when Luguire died, I thought blackmail was involved. That’s the kind of thing that can drive a man to take his own life.”
“I could have been partnered with Archer.”
“Yeah, and pilfered Luguire’s briefcase or some other source for his codes. But you and Archer fell off my suspect list when the record of the transaction was expunged. That was a sophisticated hack going beyond a bogus transfer. And then when Archer said the money had come from the offshore account of Russell Mullins—”
“You knew I wasn’t that stupid,” Mullins interjected.
“Correct. And it meant someone was not only smart, he was super smart with international access. Tracks were covered in an area of the Fed supposedly impenetrable and then the link is diverted to a fictitious account in the Caymans. I think your name was used just in case this came to light. Sends the investigators off on the wrong trail.”
Mullins grunted, but said nothing for a few minutes. He slowed as he drove by the tall apartment building called Shirlington House. His one-bedroom unit was on the fourth floor. He scanned the parking lot for any sign of surveillance. Everything seemed normal.
He continued up the hill and into the cluster of brick buildings that formed Fairlington Villages, a housing neighborhood built in World War Two that had now gone condo. Kayli lived in one at the corner of South Columbus. Mullins liked living close to his daughter, and as he felt his stress level rise at Amanda’s news, he wanted the assurance that everything was normal in her life as well.
He saw her VW Jetta parked near the entrance to her building. She and Josh would have finished dinner and were probably talking with Allen before Josh went to bed. For his son-in-law, the time would be three or four in the morning, but Kayli said he never missed a scheduled call. Mullins knew Allen was a keeper.
He relaxed and sped up. “Who else have you told?”
“No one. I wanted to check with you first.”
“And now?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know what to do. The scale of what happened is mind boggling. In addition to cold-blooded murder, we’ve got evidence of an operation that must have inside and outside participants. Luguire must have talked to the wrong person. Who can we trust?”
“Tell Radcliffe what you know.”
“What proof do I have? All the evidence has been deleted. The only existing lead is the bank record of the wire transfer from the offshore account in your name. They’ll be all over you in a heartbeat. If they silenced Luguire, you think they won’t get to you or me?”
“And the only connection is the dollar amount?”
“Yeah. Two-hundred-twenty-one thousand. And that’s a sticking point.”
“How so?” Mullins asked.
“Why so little? With the addition of a single zero, the amount could have been ten times greater.”
“Could be the size of the receiving bank. A larger amount would have drawn their attention. A small regional bank may not have as many systems in place. Who knows? End of day balance may not have been checked till the following morning. It happens.”
“So, maybe they plan to repeat this operation through a network of small banks, hacking in a way so sophisticated that the whole U.S. money supply is at risk.”
“We’d better hope that’s all it is,” Mullins said. “This could have been just a test. A demonstration of capability.”
“That’s why we need evidence. Something that can’t be denied or covered up. Like it or not, Rusty, you’ve got a stake in this. Help me build a case so strong that no one can bury it. Then we’ll take it to our old colleagues at the Treasury and Chairman Radcliffe. I’ll keep monitoring the system inside while you work outside.”
“You want me on the murder?”
“No. We need to follow the money trail. Let the police deal with Luguire. I’m going to talk to Craig Archer at Laurel Bank and tell him an investigator for the Federal Reserve will be calling on him Monday. Have you still got your photo ID clearance badge for access to our building?”
“Yes.”
“Show him that. It should be enough.”
Mullins thought a moment. “Okay. I’m on board.”
“Good.” Amanda reached over and grabbed his forearm. “Glad to have you back in the game.”
Mullins nodded. He was in all right. But for more than Amanda bargained. He still wanted Luguire’s killer more than anything.
Craig Archer poured his third bourbon over ice. Friday evening, he sat in the easy chair in his spacious den and pressed the cold glass against his temple. The prominent vein on his forehead throbbed with each beat of his heart. He didn’t want to guess his blood pressure.
He’d begged off the community theater charity dinner, the annual fundraiser chaired by his wife, claiming a splitting headache. She’d been pissed at him, but he’d been telling the truth. The pain began as soon as he got the call from the woman at the Federal Reserve.
Her accusation that he’d received a deposit from Laurel Bank’s Fed account was ludicrous. Somehow they’d screwed up and now tried to put the blame on him. But then the exact amount showed up in another questionable transaction from an off-shore transfer into an account at the Laurel branch in Staunton, Virginia. That account had closed yesterday after being open less than a week.
And the transferring off-shore account no longer existed. Craig Archer found the transaction had been posted right before the close of business on Monday, and unnoticed because the branch employee who checked the daily balances left early that afternoon for one of the bank’s mandatory training sessions. Another consequence of the FDIC sticking its nose into every aspect of his business.
Archer talked to his branch manager in Staunton, and they agreed the incident would go no further than the two of them. At this point, the FDIC knew nothing, the Federal Reserve seemed unsure that what occurred wasn’t an internal problem on their end, and the wire transfer from the Caymans in no way affected the asset base or loan portfolio of the bank. The two hundred twenty-one thousand hadn’t been there long enough to be a loanable deposit.
Archer would comply with any requests for information, but he wouldn’t bring the matter up to his board of directors. The loan debacles of the previous few years and the demands and increased scrutiny of regulators had nearly caused the bank to fail. He’d lost his title of chairman of the board and something like this could be the straw that broke the camel’s back as far as the board’s confidence in his leadership as president and CEO. Archer was sixty-three, his stock options were worthless, and his retirement funds tied up in real estate ventures that once looked solid but now would take years to recover their value.
He took a deep pull of the Wild Turkey. The liquor deadened the pain better than aspirin. Things would look better by Monday morning. The Fed would have discovered its error, and the transfer, well, coincidences do happen. Two-hundred-twenty-one thousand is a round enough number, and it went through a customer’s account that had been properly set up. Thank God for that.
His cellphone vibrated on the end table by his chair. His wife’s name flashed in the ID screen. Eight-thirty. She should be making her after-dinner speech. Maybe things wrapped early and she was going for drinks with some of her cronies.
“What’s up, dear?” He spoke in a whisper so she’d have no doubt he was still suffering.
“Are you alone, Mr. Archer?”
The glass slipped from Archer’s hand and shattered on the hardwood floor. One word flashed through his mind. Kidnapping.
“Mr. Archer?” The man’s voice was calm, cultured, soothing.
“Yes.”
“Sorry to alarm you. Your wife is fine. I just wanted to make sure you’d take my call.”
“You stole her phone?”
“No. Temporarily borrowed her number.”
“What do you want?” Archer’s fear turned to anger.
“Nothing other than to give you a heads-up. I know you spoke with Amanda Church of the Federal Reserve this morning. And you’ll probably be getting a follow-up visit from someone saying he works with Church. Technically, that’s true, but he’s really a third-party contractor.”
“And who are you?”
“Agent Nathaniel Brown with the Secret Service. We’re running a parallel investigation.”
“Into what?”
“A possible cyber-crime. I’m with the Electronic Crimes Special Agent Program.”
“You’re investigating our bank?”
“No. We believe you’re an innocent victim of an international money laundering operation. One that has assets in place within the Federal Reserve.”
“Assets? What kind of assets?”
“Human assets. A person or persons in the pay of a criminal or terrorist organization. Someone who can make what happened happen.”
“And this parallel investigation is separate from the Federal Reserve?”
“Entirely. And it’s important it stays that way. Amanda Church and her colleague Russell Mullins are probably innocent, but they are in sensitive positions. I would be remiss if I didn’t first clear them of any involvement.”
“Mullins? That was the name on the Cayman account.”
“Yes. Which makes it likely he was being framed.”
“I see.” Archer stood and paced unsteadily, trying to clear his head. “But why are you calling me?”
“I want you to cooperate with them. Tell them what they need to know. Technically, they don’t have subpoena power or the authority to make you divulge confidential information.” The man laughed. “They’re not like us, the guys in the black SUVs who can pretty much demand anything and everything.”
Archer got the point. He needed to cooperate with this guy.
“We want to see how thorough they are in their investigation. So, assist them as much as you can without revealing your bank’s own confidential matters. Then I’d like you to write up a report of that meeting and any subsequent conversations. By hand is preferable, as it carries more weight in court.”
“I’ll be called to testify?”
“If we succeed in building a case. Your role in protecting the integrity and security of our core financial institutions won’t go unnoticed.”
That was the kind of publicity Craig Archer did want to bring to his board of directors. And to have the FDIC and the Fed in his debt would be huge.
“All right,” Archer said. “If I can be of service, I’m happy to help in anyway I can.”
“Thank you. I’ll be in touch early next week. In the meantime, tell no one. Not even your wife. And there’s no need to share your visitor is even from the Federal Reserve. It might make your employees nervous.”
“I understand.”
The caller hung up. Archer took the phone from his ear and stared at it as a reality check of what just occurred. For a split-second he considered that Nathaniel Brown hadn’t given him any ID to show he was who he claimed to be.
But then the man had hijacked his wife’s cellphone number. In Archer’s mind, that was far better proof that he was dealing with the government than any wallet overflowing with credentials could provide.