CHAPTER 13
B
y mid-morning, the story had broken in the media. The wife of Senator Edward Kowalski woke to find her husband, stiff as a board—dead of a massive heart attack. And the car wreck, not even two days had passed and still it was being reported as an “accident” by the press—a plausible one.
Before this morning, journalists had been dealing with a single event. Now, even though the preliminary facts pointed to a conclusion of Senator Kowalski dying of natural causes, the cynics and conspiracy theorists—far from convinced—were stirring the pot. Questions were being asked: When was the last time three Senators died within a forty-eight hour time frame?
One year? Five years?
Answer to all: Never.
And then there were the Bible verses, one at each of the scenes. But nobody could provide any explanations.
With speculation in D.C. rampant, reporters scrambled to keep pace. The coverage focused on the vacated Senate seats.
The
Washington Post
featured an online article explaining a procedure wherein the governor would appoint a successor from Senator Kowalski’s home state.
As for Senators Hill and Nelson, the
New
York Times
posted a report detailing the process for filling the two seats through special elections.
The atmosphere had taken on a frantic, surreal tone. And now the whole country was abuzz with talk of Kowalski’s demise. Had these events occurred by chance, or design?
Again, there were more questions than answers.
Carter wasn’t having much luck at the FBI either. The case was a nightmare for the bureau. They were combing through Daniel’s background, looking for connections and hidden motives that might attach to him. Autopsies had been performed on the deceased Senators, but given the burned corpses the effort proved useless. The bureau was pursuing a theory of the Mercedes somehow being forced off the parkway, and persons of interest were being interviewed, anyone having a motive for doing away with the Senators.
Finally, the mangled and scorched Mercedes could not be expected to provide any meaningful clues.
Carter put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. The pack was almost empty, and he had opened it just this morning.
If only we could get to the bottom of this.
CHAPTER 14
J
ames had allowed Alec Specter to squirm before finally sending him an e-mail. The lawyer sat impatiently at his desk, noticed the message and opened it.
IF YOU WANT TO LIVE, FOLLOW THE ATTACHED INSTRUCTIONS, TO THE LETTER. ANY DEVIATION WHATSOEVER AND YOU’RE ALL DONE.
The attachment contained instructions, including the location of a package hidden in a wooded area adjacent to the estate’s motor court. He retrieved the package, a large zip-lock bag containing a type-written note and a mobile phone. Alone in his study, he began to read the note.
NOW THAT WE HAVE YOU’RE UNDIVIDED ATTENTION, BE ADVISED THAT WE REQUIRE YOU HAVE IN YOUR POSSESSION, NO LATER THAN MIDNIGHT, THE FOLLOWING:
The note went on to describe the form of payment. Round, brilliant cut diamonds, one-and-a-half to two carats in size, color D flawless, clarity F flawless, no less than 200 carats in total. No gem was to bear any laser inscription or markings of any kind. The note continued:
THE ENCLOSED MOBILE PHONE IS YOUR LIFELINE. IT WILL SERVE AS A MEANS TO FACILITATE THE DELIVERY. AT MIDNIGHT, HAVE THE GEMS ON HAND. WAIT FOR US TO MAKE CONTACT. IF YOU DECIDE NOT TO MAKE THE DELIVERY IN PERSON AND SOMEONE ELSE DROPS THE BALL, THE PENALTY IS YOUR HEAD.
Kate had discovered during her research that the bulk of Specter’s liquid assets were parked in a blind trust in the British Virgin Islands. This meant the account owner’s true identity could not be determined—not directly, at least. The account history reflected deposits and withdrawals tied to other accounts, one of them showing a withdrawal for the purchase of the SUV involved in the car wreck that killed Senators Nelson and Hill. James had decided that the only way of determining, with absolute certainty, the involvement of Alec Specter in the conspiracy was to blackmail him. James would demand a large sum of money, forcing Specter to withdraw funds from the trust’s bank account. He talked Kate into monitoring the account—over her objection—and wait for the withdrawal.
Specter finished reading the note, looked up and saw his wife, standing in front of his desk.
She tore the note from his hand. “What’s this?”
The words cut into her as she read the note. She immediately grasped its implications, having previously eavesdropped on the conversation between her husband and the policemen. Filled with rage, she picked up a book at her side, hurled it at him. Her pitching arm from the days on the high school women’s baseball team was evidently still intact—the heavy book bounced off his forehead. He stumbled backward.
“You’re despicable!” she shouted.
He rubbed his hand across his forehead. “Calm down.”
“You got us into this mess. And I’m supposed to be calm?”
“There’s always a solution. I can beat these people.”
“Oh, sure you can. Because it’s just rotten enough. Have you even
once
thought about me . . . about our
son
?” she shrieked. “You greedy, miserable son of a bitch! The worst part is that you can’t see it. Now we’re all paying a price. I had a feeling something like this would happen.”
He pressed on. “Every problem has a solution. I’ll figure a way out.”
Her cheeks flushed with anger. “Have you lost your mind? Didn’t you hear what those policemen said?” She pointed a finger at him. “These men are trained killers. If you don’t pay, you are a walking dead man. Are you listening to me?”
He kept on with his condescending tone. “I’m hearing every word.”
She crossed to the doorway, brushed past him, spun on her heels. “By the way, you’re sleeping in the guest quarters.”
She turned and stormed out.
Bruised and chastised, Specter sat behind his desk, forwarded the e-mail with the demand note to George Brennan—Chief of the Greenwich Police Department who then sent the note along to the FBI.
Minutes later, the telephone rang.
“Yes?”
“Good evening, Mr. Specter. It’s George Brennan.”
“I’m assuming you’ve read the note,” he said, rubbing the lump on his forehead.
“I have.”
“I’m going to meet their demands. I have no choice. My wife is already thinking of ways to kill me.”
The Chief suppressed a chuckle. “I understand.”
“I want to make something clear. I don’t give a damn what you do after the drop. The diamonds you deliver are to be genuine. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
After ending the call, the swindler worked the phones, pulling out all the stops to gather the demanded gemstones in the allotted time. A few miles away, in the cottage, Kate sat before her laptop. She had hacked into the bank’s server and continued to monitor the account every fifteen minutes. An hour after the police chief left Specter alone in his study, Kate’s eyes grew wide as she peered at her laptop.
There it was.
An outbound wire transfer in the amount of $16 million. When she hacked into another bank server in New York City, she discovered a corresponding inbound transfer. The account’s owner had a familiar name—Alec Specter.
As eleven o’clock rolled around, Specter and a roomful of law enforcement types stood in his study, waiting, staring at a cell phone on his desk. Beside the phone lay a pouch containing $20 million in precious stones. Specter had been surprised to learn that a fortune could be held in a sack no larger than a soda can.
At precisely midnight, the mobile phone made a beeping sound: a text message. The Chief picked up the phone, read it to the others.
“Get into the black Mercedes immediately. Head south on Interstate 95. Maintain speed at 55 M.P.H. Wait for further instructions.”
A group of four men attached to the Greenwich Police Department’s Special Response Unit, also known as the Swat team, crammed into the Mercedes carrying automatic weapons. The team leader exited the driveway as a second vehicle, a black SUV carrying another Swat team of four men, tailed the Mercedes from a distance. Following instructions, the driver of the sedan headed toward downtown Greenwich and onto the entrance ramp to Interstate 95.
Earlier in the day, James had timed the route in the Chevy from the Specter estate to the delivery location. He knew, at any given point, exactly where the Mercedes would be.
Twenty-two minutes after the sedan set out from the estate, James sent a text message.
A moment later, the cell phone beeped in the Mercedes.
LOOK FOR A RED FLAG ON THE GUARDRAIL. PULL OVER AND STOP BESIDE IT. YOU’LL FIND AN OPEN PIPE NEXT TO THE FLAG. YOU HAVE SIXTY SECONDS TO EMPTY THE DIAMONDS INTO THE PIPE AND DRIVE OFF.
The Mercedes rolled along an elevated section of the freeway above the Bronx. Three minutes later, the driver saw the flag. He pulled over to the shoulder and brought the sedan to a stop. The second Swat team following the Mercedes was left with only one option, continue past the sedan and drive to the next freeway exit ramp—a five-mile trip—then double back to the drop location.
This particular stretch of Interstate 95 was elevated fifty feet above the ground, a rail yard stretching out below. Moving with lightning speed, the team leader bolted from the car, fully clad in body armor, his machine gun at the ready. Quickly, he emptied the bag of gems into the open pipe.
Now realizing the plan didn’t involve the recipient collecting the gems on the freeway, the Swat team leader shouted commands to his unit. They lashed ropes to the bridge railing and slid to the rail yard below. In a blur of frenzied movement, the team searched the yard, ultimately finding no one. One of the men noticed a small PVC pipe extending from the bridge railing to the ground and through a small hole in a manhole cover. They scurried to remove the cover, only to discover it had been welded shut.
The team leader shouted, “Spread out and find some more manholes.”
In minutes, two were located, but they also were sealed. The team leader aimed his flashlight into the hole of a manhole cover, shouted again.
“Somebody find out where this tunnel leads!”
Damn it.
A man on his team spoke into a small microphone, echoing the request, but the evening’s late hour would cause a delay in getting the information.
Below the manholes, an eight-foot square storm drain collected surface water from a nearby watershed. The underground tunnel ran a long distance before discharging into Long Island Sound.
Beneath the feet of the Swat team members, James was in the tunnel.
Waiting.
A cascade of diamonds came pouring into a bag he had attached to his end of the pipe.
Only fifteen feet of earth separate me from a pack of angry men who’d like to kill me.
As he turned his attention to the bag, he found among the sparkling gems a tiny electronic transmitter. Dropping it on the concrete, he smashed the device under his boot. He placed the bag in a jacket pocket and closed the zipper. He then sat atop an all-terrain vehicle and started the engine. A light on the ATV cut the pitch darkness as he sped through the enclosed concrete box. The knobby tires hydroplaned above a four-inch base of storm water. His speed now topping 40 M.P.H., liquid displacement shot water at the tunnel walls. Thirty seconds later, James completed the half-mile journey from the delivery location to the tunnel’s opening at the Sound.
Emerging from the darkness, the cool night air enveloped him as distant lights glistened from the Sound. He quickly abandoned the ATV and scaled a nearby embankment. At the peak, Kate awaited him.
“You made it.” She looked him over. “And in one piece.”
He removed his wet suit. “
That
was a blast.”
“And the diamonds?”
James patted his jacket pocket. “Right here.”
Kate packed a pair of night-vision binoculars into a duffel bag. “A small army was roaming above your head.”
“I’m not surprised.”
After lugging the gear a hundred yards, they came upon the Chevy and James lowered a duffel bag from his shoulder, putting it in the trunk.
“Time to get the hell out of here.”
James settled into the driver’s seat.
Ten minutes later, the Swat teams located the tunnel outlet near the Sound, an ATV sitting nearby. The first Swat team leader kicked the ATV with brute force.
“Damn it.”
The second team leader looked on.
“Easy! That’s evidence.”
His head slumped to his chin. “Somehow, I doubt it.”
James drove fifteen miles to a hotel surplus parking lot where he ditched the car. Now an orphan, the Chevy was sanitized, the plates and VIN numbers removed. The gear was burned, bagged and tossed into a dumpster. Afterward, he hailed a taxi and rode with Kate to an all-night diner in New York City. Settling into a booth in a back corner, they were approached by a waitress who brought coffee. James set about inspecting the gems, pulling one from the bag and glancing around to be sure no one was paying attention. He rolled the gem between a finger and his thumb and held a magnifying glass in his other hand.
Kate eventually spoke. “Well?”
He scrutinized the gem.
“Flawless.”
She fidgeted in her seat as he inspected a few more stones.
“We’re good,” James told her.
Kate took a sip of coffee and glanced at the bag of diamonds.
“We have to convert these into cash. After Kowalski’s death last night, it’s obvious this isn’t over.”
“I’m not exactly overjoyed about the things we’re doing, but it beats winding up in the morgue.”
“What now?” Kate asked.
“Do you recall the concept of asymmetrical warfare? We’ve discussed it in the past.”
“Sure,
The Art of War,
by Sun Tzu. The Chinese military strategist.”
“Right.”
“In the book, he describes his strategy. If you’re the weaker opponent, seize the resources of your stronger opponent, then use them against him.”
“Like with Alec Specter. Get at his ill-gotten money and use it against him.”
“Exactly.”
James eyed the diamonds. “It’s Europe or bust.”
“Europe?”
“Antwerp, Belgium. It’s where the exchange is located, the largest diamond center in the world.”
Kate raised an eyebrow.
It was time to get going and catch the Amtrak train back to Washington. But one more thing needed to be done. Send a delivery confirmation to Specter.
James removed a cell phone from his pocket.
Kate looked at him. “But he tried to double cross us.”
James sighed. “I cannot argue with that.”
A long silence.
James held the secure phone in his hand.
“Oh hell, do it,” Kate finally said.
He grinned and typed a text message into the phone, then he pressed the Send key.
DELIVERY APPROVED. HAVE A PLEASANT NIGHT. JACKASS.