Threat Level Black (28 page)

Alice didn’t look quite as beautiful as Howe remembered when he met her at the restaurant.

Somehow that made him feel even better about her. He took her hands and then leaned forward over the table to kiss her as she rose; she held back a moment before kissing him, her lips soft and wet with the wine she’d been sipping.

Howe ordered a beer, then began looking at the menu.

“How’s their spaghetti?” he asked.

“You’re having beer with spaghetti?” said Alice.

“That’s not good?”

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

“I’m not really a fancy guy,” said Howe. “I think that’s why I didn’t get all that excited about the house the other day. To me, you know, a house is just a house.”

“It’s more than that.”

“For some people, sure.” He saw by the look on her face that she’d taken that as an insult. He tried to change the subject by apologizing for the kidnapping.

“Well,
you
didn’t kidnap me,” she said.

“I’m sorry that you got involved, I mean….”

The waiter appeared with his beer, then took their orders. Alice chose a special; Howe stuck with the spaghetti.

“Can we start all over?” he asked as the waiter left.

“Why?”

“Because we’re kind of on the wrong foot here,” he said. “I mean, we’re different and—”

“Being different bothers you?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. He took a sip of the beer.

This was all a mistake, he thought to himself. But he was stuck now, and she was stuck too. She tried making conversation and he tried not stumbling. Their salads came. Howe had never been very good at small talk but tried some now, asking about the difference between romaine and iceberg lettuce. She told him the leaves were different.

“Why’d you want to have dinner with me?” he asked finally.

Alice put down her fork.
“You
wanted to have dinner with
me,”
she said, taking her napkin off her lap.

She put it on the table and pushed her chair back.

“Wait,” he said reaching for her arm. “The food’s just coming. We might as well eat.”

“Thanks anyway,” said Alice, taking her hand back and walking away.

“You want Syracuse over Kentucky?”

“I don’t want anything over anything,” Fisher told Macklin. “I don’t bet.”

“You don’t bet? Go on. You have every other vice possible. You’re telling me you don’t gamble?”

“A man has to draw the line somewhere,” said Fisher. He continued scrolling through the notes on the computer, where the case information was compiled.

“ ‘Final Four, first time in New York City,’ ” said Macklin, obviously parroting a commercial Fisher hadn’t heard. “ ‘Games this weekend, with the championship next Monday. Come on. Join the pool. You have a one-out-of-four chance of winning.’ ”

“And a three-out-of-four chance of losing my money.”

“All right, Fisher. Just don’t pout on Tuesday when we’re splitting the winnings.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Listen, the Secret Service is asking for a little cooperation running down some leads….”

“I don’t have time to talk to every nut in New York City, Michael.”

“It’s not every nut. Just the violently psychotic ones.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have time.” Fisher got up from the computer.

“Where are you going?”

“Grab a smoke.”

Fisher hadn’t lied exactly: He did have a cigarette immediately upon going outside the house.

It’s just that he had that cigarette in one of the task force vehicles, which he drove to FBI headquarters in Virginia. Six hours and countless cigarettes later, he corralled his quarry, Martha Friedrickberg, an expert on identity theft who had investigated the credit card ring that was selling IDs to the terrorists.

Martha worked in an office that could have passed for a surgical scrub room. The whitewashed walls had nothing on them, her metal desk was bare, and even her computer was immaculate. The distinct odor of Listerine filled the air as Fisher entered the room.

Friedrickberg looked up from her computer. “Andy Fisher. Oh, Gawd.”

“Happy to see you, too, Martha. How’s the germs?”

“In stasis until you arrived.”

“Stasis is good or bad?”

“Neither. That’s the point: balance.” Friedrickberg pulled a spray bottle out from a bottom drawer and placed it at her elbow. “What do you want, Andy?”

“I need some information on that credit card ring.”

“Which one?”

Fisher started to explain.

“You could have just called on the phone,” said Friedrickberg, turning to her computer.

“You would have taken the call?”

“Of course not.”

“Yes, well, you’re an exception in many ways.”

She pulled up a list of numbers and pointed to it. Fisher leaned over the desk to look at it; Friedrickberg wheeled her chair backward.

“Just a lot of numbers, right?” said Fisher.

“And streptococcus is just another bacterium.”

Fisher straightened. “I’m guessing it’s not.”

“Have you had your sinuses flushed lately?” Friedrickberg wheeled herself back behind the desk, closer to her bottle. “You’d be surprised what lurks in your septum.”

“What about those numbers?”

“Fifty-three point six percent are from Asia, primarily Japan. We’ve tracked a significant subset to American tourists and businessmen.”

“And this has something to do with strep throat?”

“I despair sometimes, Andy. I truly do.”

Fisher instinctively reached for his pack of cigarettes. Friedrickberg was quicker on the draw, however: She had the bottle squared and ready to fire before he took the pack from his pocket.

“No smoking in the building,” she intoned.

“Yeah, I know that,” said Fisher. He twirled the pack between his fingers.

“I’m warning you, Andy. There’s ammonia in here.”

“So the significance of the card numbers is what?”

“There’s an Asian connection. As a matter of fact, some of us think the real masterminds
are
Asian. They found these poor immigrants from Nigeria, knew they’d be willing to make some easy money, and set them up. Every few weeks they supply fresh data: credit card numbers, social security, date of birth, et cetera. The Nigerians go out and start creating a file, usually by applying for cell phones. They get it going, then sell off the cards. Sell a card for two hundred dollars, you’ve made more than a hundred percent profit.”

“That’s all they make?”

“The cards don’t stay active for all that long. The credit card companies tend to figure out what’s going on relatively quickly, since they’re looking for this. What you want to do is use the card to set up new accounts, keep turning everything over. A few hundred dollars a shot, ten of them a week—not a bad income.”

“Have you figured out the others yet?” asked Fisher.

“We’re working on it.”

“They work with real cards?”

“There’s always a real card at the root, if you can trace it back far enough. They probably steal the cards from the same source, then divvy them up. Probably they throw some of the new cards back once they set up accounts, rather than taking in cash, because the amounts are small.”

“Can I get an updated list of cards?”

“It’s hard to come by.”

“You’re telling me you don’t trust me?”

“We have different goals. You want to close your case. I want to close mine.”

“Mine’s more important.”

“That’s like saying one form of
E. coli
is more dangerous than another,” she said. “It depends on your perspective.”

Fisher patted the end of his cigarette pack against his palm. Friedrickberg threatened with her spray.

Then, completely out of character, she put it down.

“The problem with our investigation is getting access to records,” she said. “As soon as most people see false charges on there, they report it and the credit card company gets involved. The people who have the cards stop using them. They’re afraid of the mess involved in untangling their credit records.”

“That’s tough?”

“It’s a real pain in the ass, especially once these people get involved. They do dozens of cards with all sorts of aliases and accounts. Just tracking them is difficult. We’ve tried using phony cards,” added Martha. “But we think someone inside the credit card companies must be involved, because the phonies never go anywhere. If we just had the right circumstances, we could set up a sting and unravel this thing.”

“I’m too busy to go to Japan right now,” Fisher said.

“You don’t have to. Just your credit cards.”

Reluctantly, Fisher reached for his wallet.

The new chairman of the board of NADT’s board of directors was a former vice president of the United States, now semiretired but still a major player inside the Beltway. Richard Nelson had a strong handshake and a confident manner, and he put Howe completely at ease when they finally met to discuss the job. Nelson had an office on K Street. There was a private club on the second floor of the building. He led Howe there via a private elevator; they sequestered themselves in a corner of the large room, alone except for Nelson’s bodyguard, who stood a respectful distance away across the room.

“It’s a ridiculously important job,” said Nelson. “It’s the equivalent of an undersecretary of defense, at the very least. And you’re the best man for it.”

“I hope so,” said Howe.

“Well, I’m sure of it. So is the board of directors.”

“I was told there might be questions about what happened in Korea,” said Howe. McIntyre had advised him to take the problem head-on, a strategy Howe himself favored.

“None. The CIA and the FBI were the ones who were flummoxed, not you. The attempt on your life the other day proves it. Was your lady friend hurt?”

“She’s not, uh, my girlfriend,” said Howe. He winced a little. “She was just a real estate agent who had been showing me houses. The thugs got the wrong idea.”

Nelson shook his head. “Thank God nothing happened to her.”

“So what happens now? The board takes a vote?”

“They’ve already voted,” said Nelson. “It was unanimous. You have the job—assuming you and I can come to terms.”

On Wednesday morning, Mr. Brown’s home aide showed up bright-eyed if not bushy-tailed at precisely nine
A
.
M
. The two state troopers had been reassigned to help the Secret Service on the psycho beat for the President’s visit next week, so Fisher took the surveillance himself, huddling in a peeper-type raincoat on the corner opposite the main entrance. He had a paper bag around a beer can for camouflage; he’d poured out the beer and replaced it with coffee. This made it a little sweeter than he liked, but then, surveillance was all about weathering discomforts.

Fisher had put motion detectors with wireless alerts in the hallways so he could move around a bit and not have to stare at the place the whole time. He could see the stairway down to Mr. Brown’s apartment with the help of a curved mirror in the lobby, but he had to stand directly across from the doorway to see it through the glass.

An hour passed, then two. Fisher went and bought another beer and another coffee at the store.

“Your liver’s not going to know if it’s coming or going,” said the clerk in Spanish.

“It doesn’t now,” answered Fisher.

Mr. Brown and his aide returned a little past one. With no other lead, Fisher followed the aide to a bar two blocks away, where the young man had a Bud Lite before reporting to another assignment. Since the city council had not yet gotten around to outlawing lite beer, Fisher had to leave him be.

He was heading back toward Mr. Brown’s when his sat phone rang. Worried that it was Macklin trying to hook him into the psycho watch, he checked the number before answering.

“Hey, Martha, how’s my credit card doing?” he said, hitting the Talk button.

“Looks like you just bought a couch in Peoria.”

“Great,” said Fisher.

“It’s a start, Andy,” said Friedrickberg. “You’ll move on to big-screen TVs by the end of the day, I promise.”

“Bureau’s going to reimburse me, right?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it. You can always declare bankruptcy.”

“Sounds promising.”

“Listen, I did a little checking on your behalf, into your case.”

“And?”

“I have a list of the regular customers. They’re just mailing addresses for the most part: boxes. I can send it, but only to you.”

“Let’s save some time,” said Fisher. “Which one is in Inwood? Nagle Avenue?”

“Jesus, Andy, how did you know?”

It was in Mr. Brown’s building, two floors up.

Despite the fact that Fisher warned them the apartment would be empty, Macklin and the U.S. attorney who had obtained the search warrant insisted on joining Fisher, the two NYPD plainclothes detectives, the six uniform patrolmen, and the postal inspector on the raid. It was the postal inspector Fisher really wanted, since he figured the apartment was being used primarily as a mail drop. There was an oversize box in the lobby; the mailman said it usually accumulated nearly a month’s worth of junk mail before being emptied.

Today it held only a week’s worth, judging from the dates on the circulars and the thin community newspaper. There were no credit cards, a fact that bothered the federal attorney greatly since they had relied heavily on the cards for the search warrant.

The second-floor apartment itself was completely empty, without even furniture; if Faud Daraghmeh had stayed there, he had removed all traces of himself.

“I’ll give him one thing,” said Macklin. “He’s a tidy son of a bitch. Assuming he was here.”

“Let’s talk to Mr. Brown and see if he’ll let us look in his place,” said Fisher.

“On what grounds?” asked the attorney.

“On the grounds that he’s a nice guy with nothing to hide.”

“You’re really stretching it,” said Macklin.

Brown
was
a nice guy, but the search of his apartment turned up nothing. When Fisher suggested chemical detection gear, the U.S. attorney left the apartment shaking his head. Macklin sighed and followed, as did the policemen. Fisher sat down with Mr. Brown and had a beer, which tasted a little funny without coffee in it.

“Tough day, huh?” asked the blind man.

“They’re all tough.”

“Tell me about it. But at least you got that door unstuck for me. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” said Fisher. “Here’s a question for you: Why would someone who lived in Inwood want a copy of a community newspaper from Chelsea?”

“See how the other half lives,” said Brown. He found this funny and laughed.

Fisher sipped his beer.

“Or he used to live there,” said Brown.

Fisher jumped up. “Thanks for the beer.”

“You leavin’?”

“Gotta go find the newspaper office,” said Fisher.