The Rule of Nine (5 page)

T
he United States Senate was without question the most exclusive club in the world. But tonight Joshua Root was wishing he had joined the Rotary Club instead. He was sitting alone in the darkened living room of his home in Chevy Chase holding a single sheet of paper, a printout of a personal e-mail from his computer upstairs. It was the second message in less than a month from an old acquaintance, someone he hadn't seen or heard from in years, a former friend from the dark days of his youth. Root had promptly responded to the earlier e-mail and thought it was over. But apparently it wasn't.

He had survived in the snake pit of Washington politics for three decades. Now in his senior years, he thought about the fact that at the peak of his power, his past was finally catching up with him. It seemed that everything around him was suddenly collapsing. He seemed to be suffering from increasing bouts of anxiety and confusion. Whether it was age or his worsening physical condition he couldn't be sure. But lately it seemed that he was constantly perspiring.

The mess in Washington, the disarray within his own party, was
rapidly transforming the achievements of the previous year into a nightmare. They had come to power on the shoulders of voters with a promise of fresh politics and openness in government. Now, little more than a year later, they were left to founder on an agenda of costly social reforms that few on either side of the aisle embraced. In the end they had to be negotiated in the middle of the night behind locked doors, and purchased with billions of dollars in pork.

Root had been through tough times before, but never anything like this. With high unemployment and an ever present recession, voters across the country were growing restive. Their mood was increasingly ugly. An invitation to a tea party could mean anything from tar and feathers to a lynching.

The powers in Washington had lost control. In their place was a mob of itinerant Internet bloggers, constantly picking through political trash looking for dirt. The minute they found it, the story would play in a continuous loop over the national bullhorn, the round-the-clock cable news networks looking for ratings.

To Root, the delusional mood among leaders in Washington resembled the sense of serenity at Versailles the night before the French Revolution. Of course, his sense of dread was heightened by the knowledge he possessed.

The most odious scandal in American political history was bubbling like a hot yellow cauldron just beneath the surface of the nation's capital. And with millions pounding the streets looking for work, the timing couldn't have been worse.

For as far back as Josh could remember, senior members of Congress had been raking in large sums of money from interested parties on legislation. The casual observer might ask, “What else is new?” But this money was not in the form of campaign contributions, and the sums being transferred would have dwarfed the national treasuries of a few small countries. It had been going on for years, long before Root arrived in Washington, and was without question the best-kept secret in town. Over the decades sizable
personal fortunes had been transferred from multinational corporations, and in some cases foreign governments, into secret numbered bank accounts owned and controlled by powerful key members of Congress.

It was never discussed. No one ever talked about it. It was considered the poorest of form ever to put anything in writing. Votes were peddled with a wink and a nod, and the money wired in from overseas accounts where U.S. authorities had limited reach. The practice was of long standing, and was clearly understood by all the players, almost as if it were written in invisible ink and included in the Senate rules.

Virtually all of the numbered accounts were in Europe, in countries where the sanctity of bank-secrecy laws was not only time honored, but a principal pillar of the national economy. For a considerable fee these banks would quietly roost on your growing bag of gold with never a name attached to it, just a number, along with written instructions for periodic disbursements.

Senior members of Congress, including Root, were now sitting on stacks of money that would have shamed the Rothschilds. This while they beat their gums and railed over bonuses paid to corporate executives, people who were forced to genuflect because they flew into town on private jets.

For Root, his lifetime under-the-table earnings now amounted to more than a billion dollars, all of it illegal and on which he paid no U.S. tax. After all, the 1040 IRS form didn't include a line for “income derived from bribery.” It must have been an oversight.

Then it happened. Forty years of corruption and incompetence and the national economy suddenly tanked. Who could have guessed? They found themselves busy holding hearings and pointing fingers, mostly at everyone else, when some do-gooder at Treasury lit a fuse that legislative leaders on the hill were still trying to stamp out.

The government was strapped for cash, so it was natural that
the Treasury Department would be looking for a new group of taxpayers to shear. It didn't take long to find a pigeon. Who more deserving than American citizens hiding large amounts of income in banks offshore? Somebody slipped an amendment into a bill allowing Treasury to turn the diplomatic and economic screws on foreign banks holding deposits belonging to U.S. citizens. What they wanted were the names of Americans holding secret numbered accounts so they could impose taxes and penalties on undeclared income. And it would be an added bonus if they threw a few of the tax dodgers in prison as a warning to the rest.

Before Root and his friends could move to kill the bill, a number of foreign governments similarly strapped for cash jumped on the idea. What had been a private food fight in Washington suddenly turned into an international free-for-all and was threatening to get out of control.

Neglecting to report a modest amount of income on foreign rental properties was one thing. Explaining away vast fortunes in numbered accounts in what was clearly an institutionalized system of public corruption dating back decades was another.

Root and his friends began scrambling for some way out. They couldn't transfer the funds without creating a paper trail and shooting off international warning flares for money laundering.

Quietly they appealed to the manhood of their Swiss bankers, questioning whether any sovereign nation should cede such intimate powers as bank secrecy to a bullying superpower. If the bankers would only push back, members of Congress would quietly knee the Treasury Department in the groin from behind.

It took nearly two years of testy negotiations with the State Department and Treasury before Josh and his friends could get the genie back in the bottle and hammer the cork into place once more.

Under the plan only a limited number of American account holders would be identified. These were to be selected at random.
At least that was the theory. Since no one could be sure whether they would be in the group to be outed or not, the theory was that the random disclosures would force a large number of U.S. citizens to come clean. It was a good argument, except for one thing. The names of current and former members of Congress suddenly went off the banks' official books. They would never be dropped in the hat, and therefore would never be disclosed. Business would go on as usual. At least that was the dream before Josh received the first e-mail.

Root couldn't be sure, but he had a good idea of who the man was. In the two e-mails received so far, he'd signed off using the name “the Old Weatherman.”

The Weathermen were a loosely knit organization of student radicals dating back to the late 1960s. They were a splinter group of the Students for a Democratic Society. Their goal was the violent overthrow of the United States government. Eventually the organization died like everything else, of old age.

Root knew all about them because he had once been a member. It was during the early seventies. Using a different name and a false ID, Josh had participated in a number of acts, including the bombing of two federal buildings and a Bank of America in Southern California. The bank bombing, which had taken place in the middle of the night, resulted in the unintended death of a guard no one knew was present. It was this that brought Root to his senses. He quietly dropped out of the organization a few weeks later and cycled back into the real world.

But the Old Weatherman, now sending missives to him, knew about it. Not only did he know about Root's past, but he had details and evidence that could tie Josh to the bank bombing.

Root looked down at the single sheet of paper in his quivering hand. He'd known when he made the first payment that there would be no end to it. Now he wanted another half million. This to keep quiet. Or else he would send the information to the police. The Weatherman had already collected two and a half million,
wired from Root's Swiss bank account to another numbered account in Lucerne. The Old Weatherman was forcing Root to take dangerous chances wiring large sums of money around in the open. It was almost as if he was enjoying it. No doubt a true believer who never gave up the cause and was angry with Root, who had sold out and was now part of the power structure.

It was as if he knew that Josh had a bottomless pit filled with cash. But how could he know? He crumpled up the e-mail in his hands, balled it into a tight wad, started to throw it at the wall, then saw himself in the mirror and stopped. Sooner or later he would have to deal with the man, one on one. Root couldn't chance going to anyone else. “Better the devil you know than the one you don't.”

M
y daily calendar sheet says her name is Joselyn Cole. She is from the state bar association. According to our receptionist, she called late yesterday afternoon, demanded a meeting, and mentioned something about irregularities in our client trust account. Given the recent chaos it's probably a minor bookkeeping mistake, but it's not something I can ignore. I've had to shoehorn her into my calendar this morning.

As I cross the threshold into my office she is already seated in one of the client chairs in front of my desk, attractive, sleek, and from appearances all business. She is wearing a dark blue suit and packing a briefcase, black leather, that is slung from her shoulder on a strap like that of an assault rifle.

I close the door behind me and step around the desk and into my chair on the other side.

I introduce myself. “Ms. Cole, is it?”

“That's right.”

“What is this about, our client trust account?”

She looks at me a little sheepishly and smiles. “I suppose I should apologize for that. I have to confess I'm sailing under false colors. It's
true my name is Joselyn Cole. But I'm not with the bar. So you can relax. As far as I know there is nothing wrong with your client trust account.”

As soon as she says it, I'm like Bambi in the headlights.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“I'm sorry for the deception but it was absolutely essential that I talk to you.”

She looks to be in her early forties, with blue eyes and shoulder-length sandy hair. There are just a few specks of gray, enough to let you know she is more interested in what she's about than how she looks.

“I am with a group known as Gideon Quest. We're a nongovernmental organization, an NGO.” She slips me a business card from across the desk.

“I don't make contributions or respond to solicitations in the office.” I talk as I examine her card.

“I'm not here looking for money, Mr. Madriani. Our organization is involved in the international effort to stem weapons proliferation, both weapons of mass destruction as well as certain classes of conventional weapons. So I suspect you probably know why I'm here,” she says.

An electric chill runs down my spine, the kind of feeling you got as a kid when the nun called you to the front of the class with a ruler in her hand.

“No. I'm sorry, I don't. And I have a very busy day, so I think we're going to have to cut this short.”

“Part of my job involves incident inquiries, events that may represent a threat to public safety, and that may go undetected and unreported for any number of reasons.” She ignores me. “Events don't always get covered in the general press.”

“It's all very interesting, but as I said, I'm busy.”

“We're one of a number of organizations that report on a regular basis to the International Atomic Energy Agency, the IAEA. I assume you've heard of it.”

I'm still looking at her card, trying to collect my thoughts to figure out whether to toss her out now or let her go on to find out what she knows, if anything.

“I've got some questions I'd like to ask you,” she says.

That cuts it. “I'm sorry, but I don't have time for this.”

“It's very important,” she says. “It's not often that we see an incident like this. The fact is I've seen it only once before. And a friend was killed. They covered it up then too. I tried to warn people back then but no one would listen. The government made it sound as if I was crazy. So I did the only other thing I could do—I found others who shared the same concern and we founded Gideon Quest. Yes, accidents happen, but an attempted intentional detonation in a population center is a seminal event. You really have a moral obligation to talk about this.”

“Excuse me. You come here under false pretenses, scare the hell out of me with some story about problems in our client trust account. Then you tell me you're with an organization I've never heard of…”

“I told you I was sorry, but it was the best I could do on short notice,” she says.

“No, you could have told the truth,” I tell her. I'm trying to shift from angst to indignation, so I can gain the moral high ground to get her back on her heels and out of here.

“If I'd told you the truth, you would have refused to see me.” The facts being what they are, she is dead on. So I try again. This time I get up out of my chair as if emphasizing my moral outrage.

“You come here misrepresenting who you are and what you want. Flying, as you say, under false colors, and you expect me to take time out of a busy day…Get out.” The words come out as if I'm trying to shoo some cat out the door. “Get out of my office. Now! Please.”

There is a moment of silence as she looks at me with a kind of quizzical expression, as if she has gas. It starts with a modest grin, then the laugh lines around her eyes begin to flex. A second later
any attempt at composure evaporates in a wave of laughter. It seems my attempt at fury has waddled across the desk, rolled over in front of her, and died.

“What's so funny?”

“You,” she says. There's a tear running out the corner of one eye. “You should never try to do pompous, angry bastard. You're terrible at it.”

“Is that so?”

“You lack the paunch and jowls.” She's still laughing, wiping the tears from her eyes. “If you want to do anger, you should do silent and steely eyed. You know, quiet rage and maybe avoid getting out of the chair. I'm sorry, but the words just don't comport with the picture. Pompous, angry bastard belongs to fat men. You just don't make it. Besides, your eyes are all over the place. You're looking at everything in the room except the object of your fury—me. You were avoiding eye contact. You know what that says to me?”

“No, but I'm sure you'll tell me.”

“Man with a secret, trying to hide it under a bushel of feigned fury. And your body language…”

“What's wrong with my body language?”

“It's dead,” she said. “You're supposed to be angry. You should be pointing at the door when you tell me to go, and you never, never, never end by saying please. It sounds like you're asking permission to go to the bathroom. Trust me. I've been thrown out of better offices than this. I have a lot of experience. I know what I'm talking about.”

“Thanks for the dramatic critique,” I tell her. “Now you can go.”

“That's better,” she says. “I mean I'm still not convinced that you're about to turn the desk over on top of me. But at least you didn't say please. It's a step,” she says.

I stand there looking at her. I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry.

“Now I've hurt your feelings,” she says. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. Listen, it was cute. Really. And I'm flattered that you
would do it for me. To take the risk, I mean, to put yourself out there like that. That takes a lot of courage. Let me guess. I'm going to bet that you don't have a lot of authority with little children or dogs. Am I right?”

“Now I'm starting to get angry,” I tell her.

“Good,” she says. “It has to be real. It has to come from the gut or no one's gonna believe it.”

“I want you to go.” I point toward the door.

“Yes, but how badly do you want it? I don't see any real passion.”

I try to hold a stern expression but I can't. I start to laugh.

“There you go,” she says. “Back to my question now about children and dogs.”

I'm shaking my head as I laugh. She's destroyed me.

“I thought so. They have a sixth sense for false anger. They can read it in a heartbeat.”

“Is that so?” I slump back into my chair.

“Children just laugh, but dogs will try to take advantage of you. They'll turn you into a littermate.” The laugh lines come to life deep within her tawny complexion as she smiles at me.

“I'm not your enemy. Believe me. You can call the police and have me thrown out, or have me arrested if it makes you feel better, but do me the courtesy of answering at least one question.”

I would ask her what, but sound judgment tells me not to.

“I want to know why you haven't told the press or the public what you know about the events in Coronado. Why you haven't made any public statement about what was on that truck. You see, we already know the device was nuclear. What we don't understand is why you haven't said anything. People need to know how close they came. The next time they may not be as lucky.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Acting talent and confidence skills come from the same area of the brain,” she says. “Your gifts must be elsewhere because you don't lie very well either.”

“Now that's something you would know about,” I tell her.

“They put pressure on you, didn't they? The FBI, NSA, the Justice Department? They've threatened you, to keep you quiet. What did they say?”

“I'm practicing being silent and steely eyed,” I tell her.

“You can trust me,” she says.

“Of course I can. You come with such sterling credentials.” For all I know she could be working undercover with Thorpe, sent here to test me, to see if I'll talk. The way she's holding her briefcase under her arm, pointed at me, it could easily be concealing a digital minicam and a mic. My face might be playing on a television at this moment in the back of a government van parked out in front.

She notices me looking and glances down at her bag. “Ah. I see. You don't trust me. You're a careful man,” she says. “That's good. Here.” She opens the briefcase, pulls out a file, two pens, a yellow notepad, and a small case for eyeglasses. When she opens the case, a pair of glasses fall out and clatter onto the top of the desk. She drops the strap from her shoulder and turns the briefcase upside down, shaking it to show me that it's empty. Then she slides it across the desk toward me. “Go ahead, check it yourself. I want you to be comfortable. And I'm not wearing any electronics if that's what you think. You can pat me down. I'll even take my clothes off if you like.”

“What then? Scream rape? No thanks. Don't get me wrong. It's not that I don't trust you. I'm a criminal lawyer after all. I'm used to being lied to. People lie to me all the time. Some of my best clients lie to me. But then, that's all part of the lawyer-client thing. You expect a client to lie, at least from time to time. It's like the husband-wife thing, when one of them tells the other they're not having an affair. But we're not married and you're not a client, so we don't have a thing. We're strangers, so it's much trickier trying to figure out when I'm being lied to and why. Do you understand? I know it's confusing, but trust me on this.”

“You haven't answered my question,” she says.

“You noticed. I'm sorry to tell you this, but if you keep asking I'm afraid you're gonna have to get used to it. I am better at asking questions.”

“Go ahead. What do you want to know?” she says.

“Who sent you here?”

“No one.”

“What makes you think I know anything?” I ask.

“Now who's lying?” she says. “Okay, I'll tell you. We don't think. We know,” she says. “Your name, along with all the details, was given to me.”

“By whom?”

“That I can't tell you. But I can guarantee you that the information I have is solid—direct from God's lips to my ear,” she says. “You wouldn't be revealing any secrets to me if that's what you're afraid of. In fact, I suspect we know things you don't. We know that you were on the truck, along with Mr. Diggs and a woman from Costa Rica whose name we have. We know that the device was of Russian design, gun type, using highly enriched uranium, and that it dated to the Cuban missile crisis, 1962 to be exact. At some point it became a loose nuke in the hands of Middle Eastern terrorists. We know that a defector from the Russian military with technical skills armed the device either when, or before, it was delivered to Coronado and that this man was shot and killed on the street outside the naval base. We know that you were there when he was shot and that you witnessed it. How am I doing so far?”

“If you know so much, why don't you go to the press?” I ask her.

“Because we can't. It would jeopardize our source of information. This is a valuable and continuing asset that we cannot afford to lose. The source is irreplaceable, not just with regard to weapons of mass destruction, but other weapons systems as well. Precision-targeted high-tech stuff that we believe presents unacceptable risks to civilized societies in the future. If we said anything, they would know where the information came from. And
even if they didn't, the source would never talk to us again. But you have independent knowledge. You were there. That's why we need you and Mr. Diggs to come forward.”

“It's an interesting story,” I tell her. “But I can't help you.”

“My god, what did they do to you?” She reaches for her briefcase and pulls it back across the desk. “I mean, to put the fear of federal wrath into you so deeply that you're willing to cooperate in covering up a major nuclear incident? They must have done something horrible. You poor man,” she says. She starts to load her stuff back into the briefcase.

“Appealing to my sense of manhood will get you nowhere.”

“Obviously,” she says. “Contrary to popular belief, they don't kill all the lawyers, they just neuter them. That's funny, they must have missed me,” she says.

“You're a lawyer?”

“I don't practice any longer.”

“That's good, because going around passing yourself off as an investigator with the state bar could probably get your ticket punched.”

“I'm licensed in another state,” she says.

“For your sake I hope it's the state of grace, because there's a good chance you're gonna find yourself up to your high heels in some serious doo-doo if you continue pursuing this line of inquiry.”