The 13th Target (14 page)
Sidney Levine realized he shouldn’t have had the fourth beer. Or he should have had something to eat. When Sullivan cut him loose from the station, he’d been shaken. Shaken by the bank video, shaken by the detective’s accusations, and shaken that he hadn’t seen how events could be turned against him.
As a reporter, he took pride in not just uncovering a story but also analyzing its impact and implications. That’s what had drawn him to the Federal Reserve, an institution cloaked in secrecy and wielding unparalleled power over the United States and the world as well. But the links Sidney tried to forge in his investigation of Luguire’s death had ensnared him instead. And Mullins was either out there as a potential murderer or a potential victim whose body was yet to be discovered.
Sidney got up from the table and felt the room tilt slightly. He left a twenty under his last bottle of Heineken and negotiated his way through Clyde’s bar scene without waiting for a bill. The staff all knew him. His waiter waved good night and then hurried to the table before the twenty disappeared.
Outside, the muggy air refused to cool. Despite the heat, streetlights illuminated throngs of young professionals and summer tourists on the Georgetown sidewalks. Sidney wanted to get lost in a crowd and so he went with the flow, aimlessly drifting up Wisconsin Avenue.
He’d left his car halfway between Clyde’s and his Q Street apartment. When the physical exertion and heat had sweated out the beer and cleared his head, he realized he’d walked beyond both his car and his address. The car would be fine for the night. Sidney headed straight for his apartment, anxious to get on his computer and float Craig Archer’s name as someone who had possible dealings with Paul Luguire and was now dead. Sidney knew no reason other than Mullins’ visit to the banker as to why there should be a connection. But that was the beauty of the Internet, making anonymous speculation without a shred of evidence.
Sidney stopped in the hall outside his apartment and listened. No music. His heart rate surged. He’d left the FM station playing when he’d gone to meet Sullivan. Then a gentle swell of orchestral strings broke the silence. He put the key in the lock and opened the door.
Without turning on the light, he hurried to his desk and opened his laptop. The screensaver, a quill pen smashing a sword, came to life as the device woke from hibernation.
“Don’t turn around.” The gruff voice barked the words from behind.
Sidney’s knees weakened. He gripped the back of his desk chair to keep from collapsing. “What do you want?” The question came as a strangled whisper.
“Who is Walter Thomson?”
“Mullins?” The name was both an answer and a question to the intruder.
“Sit down.”
Sidney rolled the chair from the desk and nearly fell into the seat.
“Now, swivel around slowly.”
Sidney twisted the chair to face the man. The glow of the computer screen revealed a murky figure standing against the far bookcase. He held something in his right hand. A dull black tube extended toward the floor. Sidney shivered at what he saw as a gun with a silencer.
The man raised his right arm and snapped on a small flashlight. The brilliant halogen beam struck Sidney squarely in the eyes.
“Who is Walter Thomson?”
This time Sidney clearly recognized Rusty Mullins’ voice.
“You, I guess. The name you used when you met with Craig Archer.”
“Who told you that?”
“The teller. I went in the bank after the bomb scare. Said I was supposed to meet you. The teller phoned up to Archer’s office and was told the only appointment of the morning had been with Walter Thomson.”
Mullins studied the reporter’s eyes. No signs of shifting, just a frightened deer-in-the-headlights gaze devoid of cunning and calculation.
“You gave her my name?”
Sidney nodded. “I was hoping they could tell me where you’d gone. As soon as I understood you used a phony name, I left. I thought maybe you were working undercover.”
“And why did you leave that message on my home phone?”
“I didn’t have your cell, and I didn’t know where you were. I was trying to force you to make contact so I could find out what was going on.”
“Who else did you tell?”
Sidney glanced away for a split-second.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not. I’m thinking.” Sidney was afraid to say Detective Sullivan, but maybe that was his only chance. If Mullins was a killer and he thought Sidney hadn’t said anything, then he might silence him permanently. “Detective Sullivan.”
“Anybody else?”
“Not from me. But Sullivan knows I’m trying to reach you. If something happens to me, he’ll know you did it.”
“You know what happened to Archer?”
Sidney’s voice failed. He nodded.
“Is that why you told Sullivan?”
“I didn’t tell him about Archer. I just said I’d overheard you say you were going to Roanoke. I didn’t want to implicate you in anything you weren’t involved with.”
“And you didn’t want me getting away with murder if I was guilty.”
“I figured Sullivan would learn about Archer’s death on his own.”
“So, now he thinks I killed Archer?”
“No. I don’t think he believes you saw Archer. He thinks I killed him and that I’m trying to frame you.”
Mullins considered both the story and the man telling it. He laughed. The dumpy reporter was as likely to be an assassin as he was to score the winning touchdown in the next Super Bowl.
Anger replaced the fear in Sidney’s eyes. “You find that funny?”
“I do.” Mullins crossed the room to the light switch and turned on the overhead. “More importantly, I believe you. Now why doesn’t Sullivan believe you?”
Sidney took a deep breath and tried to stop his hands from shaking. “He saw me on the bank’s security cameras and he didn’t see you. I lied to him while he thinks you’ve played straight. He’s concerned you’ve disappeared. He didn’t say it, but I’m afraid he thinks you’re dead and that I might have killed both you and Archer.”
Mullins sat down on a worn sofa next to the bookcase. “What were you planning to do next?”
Sidney nodded toward the computer. “Log on. Post a few inquiries about Archer and wonder about a connection to Luguire. See if the viral tide washes anything up.”
“Has Sullivan told the Roanoke police about me?”
“He hadn’t when I saw him. Like me, he didn’t want to screw up something you had working.”
Mullins glanced at his watch. Nine-thirty. “Was Sullivan pulling second shift?”
“I don’t know.”
“When did you see him?”
“Around four. He left me a voicemail earlier about a break in the case. That’s what lured me into the station.”
“Call him.”
“Now?”
“No,” Mullins snapped. “On Christmas.”
Sidney brought up the list of recent calls, recognized the Arlington Police Department, and punched callback. “What if he’s not there?”
“Then tell the duty officer to find him. You’ve got information you’ll only give to him.” Mullins got up and stood beside Sidney’s chair. “When he comes on the line, give the phone to me.”
Sidney expected Sullivan to be out, but the officer who answered put him on hold and in less than minute, Sidney heard the familiar voice.
“Sullivan.”
“It’s Sidney Levine. Hang on a second.”
Mullins took the phone. “This is Mullins. Don’t say my name out loud.”
“Okay. Where are you?”
“Where are you?” Mullins demanded.
“At my desk. Alone.”
“We need to talk face to face.”
“All right. Come on in.”
“No way,” Mullins said. “We need to sort things out first.”
“Have you got blood on your hands?”
“No, but three people were killed within hours of being with me.”
Sidney moaned and rolled his chair away.
“Three?” Sullivan asked.
“Yeah. And I’m afraid there might be more.”
“So people die who are with you and you want to see me face to face.”
Mullins had to laugh. “Yeah. But you’re a cop. You don’t count.”
“How about the reporter?”
“Sidney’s fine. He’s not a hostage, if that’s what you’re thinking. A hostage has to be of value to somebody.”
“Thanks a lot,” Sidney muttered.
“All right,” Sullivan said. “It’s your show. Where do you want to meet?”
“There’s an apartment on Q Street. I’ll give you the address.”
Sidney jumped from the chair. “He’s coming here?”
Mullins waved him to be quiet, and then gave Sullivan directions.
“I’ll be there in less than thirty,” the detective promised.
Mullins handed Sidney the phone. “You expecting company?”
“No. My girlfriend’s working tonight.”
“Okay.” Mullins pointed to the computer. “Don’t post anything till we talk to Sullivan.”
“Sure.” The shock at Mullins’ break-in had transformed into excitement. Sidney didn’t know Mullins’ game, but right then he didn’t care. He was a player.
As if reading the reporter’s mind, Mullins said, “Sullivan might not want to talk in front of you.”
“I’ll keep this meeting off the record. I swear.”
“But if he’s adamant about it, you might have to take a hike.”
“This is my place. I have a right to be here.”
Mullins stepped closer. “You don’t want me as your enemy.”
Mullins may have been ten years older, but Sidney knew the man could take him without breaking a sweat.
“You’ve kept your head so far,” Mullins said. “I appreciate that you didn’t go for an easy headline tying me to Archer. You knew there was something bigger going on. Well, it might be so big that you won’t just be writing a story, you’ll be writing a book.”
Sidney felt the adrenaline rush he thought was gone for good.
“That’s if we play it right,” Mullins added. “Play it wrong, and you’ll be writing my obituary, assuming you’re still among the living.”
Kayli Woodson thumbed through the current issue of
Entertainment Weekly,
but her mind wasn’t on the “who’s in/who’s out” gossip of Hollywood. She had problems of her own. Ten o’clock and no word from her father. To make matters worse, her husband Allen missed their seven o’clock call, and Josh refused to go to bed because he hadn’t said good night to either Daddy or Paw Paw.
She finally got Josh down an hour late and read his favorite stories till he fell asleep. She wanted to go to bed, but her mind kept racing. She hadn’t seen her father so keyed-up since her mother’s illness, and at least then, she’d been able to share part of the burden.
Her cellphone vibrated on the end table beside her chair. The caller ID read RESTRICTED.
She grabbed it. “Hello.” She heard the sound she hoped for. Silence. The line was dead for a few seconds.
“Hi, babe. Sorry I missed the call.” Lieutenant Commander Allen Woodson sounded exhausted.
“You okay, honey?” Silence again as the communication routing delayed both ends of the connection.
“Yes. We had an all-nighter.”
Kayli knew her husband couldn’t talk about his work, especially over a POTS line. As an O-4, he supervised a UAV squadron—unmanned aerial vehicles—and Kayli assumed most of his operations occurred during daylight. But with high-tech, infra-red, and only God and the Pentagon knew what else, Allen had a twenty-four-hour job.
“You’re good to call. If it hadn’t taken forever to get Josh to sleep, I’d wake him.”
“What was wrong with him?”
“He misses you. So do I.”
“I miss you both. Maybe we’ll have a better connection Saturday. If you can work me in around the Washington Nationals.”
Kayli laughed with delight. “It’s a deal. I’ll let you know the TV time.” Her spirits rose at the prospect of seeing her husband face to face. In that brief exchange, she learned Allen would be docking at Bahrain on Saturday—the matching port to the Washington Nationals. Before he deployed, they had assigned Major League teams to all the possible ports of call. TV meant Skype, the video connection he wasn’t allowed to use at sea.
“Sounds good,” Allen said. “Sorry the time is so short.”
“That’s all right. I know you have a lot to do.” Kayli understood he was telling her the port destination had come up suddenly. Usually orders were posted several weeks out and their coded exchange might allow the chance for her to meet him.
“Anything new with your dad?”
Kayli’s brief respite of joy ended. “I haven’t heard from him in two days. Not since he called on his way to Florida. That’s not like him.”
The silence on the phone was longer than the transmission delay.
Finally, Allen asked, “Is he working with anyone?”
“Not that I know. I called Prime Protection this afternoon and they said he was on vacation.”
“Anyone at Federal Reserve?”
“He has a former colleague from Secret Service, Amanda Church, but he hasn’t mentioned her. I’m not sure what department she’s in.”
“Don Beecham might know.”
Kayli thought a second. “Dad and Don took the boys to a T-ball game Saturday. Dad could have said something.”
“Maybe. But your father’s tight-lipped about his work.”
Kayli laughed. “Just like his son-in-law.”
“Well, check with Don. It couldn’t hurt. And when you do hear from your Dad, drop me an email.”
When the conversation was over, Kayli looked at her watch. Ten after ten. Too late to phone Don Beecham. She’d try in the morning before he left for work.
And maybe her dad would call before then or send his text saying, “Good Morning Glory.”
The comfort she gained from talking to Allen faded. Something was wrong. She felt it in the pit of her stomach. Her dad had been evasive about where he was going and what he was doing. Like the old days with the Secret Service. But this was different if he was on his own. She didn’t doubt her father’s abilities, but she also didn’t doubt he could be too hard-headed and too independent for his own good.
Rusty Mullins sat down on the sofa and balanced his coffee on his knee. “There are things I can tell you and things you’re going to have to trust me on.”
“No. I’m going to have to trust you on everything, especially the things you tell me.” Detective Sullivan took a cup from Sidney Levine and hoisted it toward Mullins. “You’d do the same in my position.”
Sidney returned to the kitchen to get the third mismatched cup for himself.
Sullivan’s gaze followed him. “And I’m also not comfortable discussing the Luguire case or anything else in front of a reporter.”
“Except I’m a writer. Not a reporter.” Sidney pulled a folding chair from the corner of the room and sat opposite Mullins.
Sullivan took the easy chair and completed an equilateral triangle. “What the hell’s the difference?”
“Like I told you. I don’t have an assignment editor, which means I don’t have a deadline. I can sit on this until we know what we’re dealing with.”
Sullivan shook his head. “Evidently Mullins already knows what we’re dealing with. And the way I see it, I’m the only one here whose ass can wind up in a sling.”
“There’s plenty of trouble to go around,” Mullins said. “And the stakes are too high for any of us to worry about our own asses. Now we’re either working together or I’m walking out the door.”
The ultimatum surprised Sidney and Sullivan. Mullins had called the meeting, and more importantly, he’d been off the grid for over two days. He bet their curiosity would win out. If not, then he was ready to make good on his threat.
“All right,” Sullivan said. “My pension’s not worth a crap anyway. But I’m not closing my eyes to a crime.”
“No one’s asking you to,” Mullins said. “We’re trying to prevent one. That’s the new priority.”
Sullivan leaned forward in his chair. “You mean there’s more to this than solving the deaths of Luguire and Archer?”
“Yes. And the problem is that there’s so much more some innocent people are going to get hurt or even killed because saving their lives could jeopardize a larger operation.”
“What larger operation?” Sidney asked.
“That’s the part where you’re going to have to trust me. I’ll paint the picture in broad strokes, but Federal agencies are dealing with it.” Mullins looked at Sullivan. “They’re not directly involved in your investigation, so I doubt you’ll cross paths. It’s also better if you have limited knowledge in case they blow it. There’s no reason for any of this to come back on you.”
“My pension insurance,” Sullivan said.
“You can think of it that way.”
“So what are we working on?” Sidney asked.
“This.” Mullins took an envelope out of his jacket pocket. “I made a copy before I turned the original over to the feds. One side is a photograph and the other is the backside where someone wrote information about the picture.” He passed the two copies to Sullivan.
“Looks like Florida,” Sullivan said.
“Sunrise, Florida.”
Sullivan read the handwritten note on the second copy. “‘Fares, Zaina, and Jamila, age 3. November 2011.’ Who are these people?”
“They lived in the house. That is until the bank foreclosed on them.”
“Archer’s bank?” Sullivan passed the photocopies to Sidney.
“No. The mortgage was held by a Florida bank with no connection to Archer that I could find.”
“Then what do they have to do with Archer and Luguire?” Sullivan asked.
“The family’s last name is Khoury. They’re Lebanese. Fares Khoury used an alias to open a bank account at a branch of Archer’s bank in Staunton, Virginia. I went to see Archer in Roanoke on Monday to ask him about Khoury. More accurately, Fred Mack, the false name used on the account.”
“Freddie Mac,” Sidney said. “The Federal Home Loan Mortgage Corporation, the public government-sponsored agency that buys and sells secondary mortgages. They got stuck with so much toxic shit that last year they sued seventeen banks for misrepresenting their bundled mortgage funds.”
Both Sullivan and Mullins looked at Sidney with new appreciation.
“Jesus,” Mullins said. “Freddie Mac. I should have seen the connection.”
“Was Archer’s bank one of the seventeen?” Sullivan asked.
Sidney shook his head. “Just the big boys. Maybe this Khoury saw himself as being screwed like Freddie Mac, or if his scheme was to defraud the bank, then maybe he was making a statement that Freddie Mac was just as culpable.”
“You lost me,” Sullivan said.
“The banks and related financial institutions were under pressure from the politicians to make homeownership more affordable. Banks are by nature adverse to risk, but they like making money. Politicians can tie them up in reviews, committee hearings, and banking regulations. Politicians want homeowners voting for them, and bank executives want shareholders approving bonuses that are larger than the GNP of most countries. Throw in the wink factor, plus a Federal Reserve and Treasury Department ready, willing, and able to infuse debt-generated capital into the system, and you have an unholy alliance.”
Sullivan scratched his head. “What do you mean wink factor?”
“You get the banks, the feds, and the politicians in a room together. The politicians push the banks for looser mortgage underwriting and give them a wink. Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae wink to the banks they’ll agree to buy their mortgages on the secondary market, the politicians wink at these government-sponsored agencies that they’ll cover their risks, and everybody winks at the Federal Reserve and U.S. Treasury to provide the bailout money in case some of those mortgages go south.”
“What about Wall Street?” Sullivan asked.
“Wall Street saw a gold mine in bundling all these new mortgages into investment vehicles and making an obscene amount of money while adding nothing of value. The brakes were off, loan screening and lending practices became a joke, and everybody was grabbing every dollar possible. Housing prices skyrocketed, but that didn’t stop sales. Bigger mortgages made up the difference, and commissions at every step of the process turned mortgage lending and mortgage-backed securities into a feeding frenzy.”
“And then it blew up,” Mullins said.
Sidney waved his hands in a wide circle. “A goddamned mushroom cloud. The 2008 financial collapse left people unable to pay mortgages that were ballooning. Not just homeowners who lost their jobs, but people who’d been told they would simply roll-over escalating mortgages into new loans. But when real estate values plummeted, people who tried to refinance found they not only had no equity, they had a value deficit between the appraised worth of their home and the balance of their existing mortgage. Sometimes the appraisal was only half the mortgage balance. I interviewed one family whose payment went from a thousand dollars a month to seven thousand a month. They needed seventy-two thousand of new income just to stay even.”
Sidney looked at the photograph of the Khourys. “If that happened to this family, they would have felt like victims. And who could argue? It was all a damn shell game, stacked in favor of everyone but those who could least afford to bear the loss. The poor and the taxpayer.” Sidney handed the photo back to Mullins. “You think Fares Khoury, a.k.a. Fred Mack, killed Archer?”
“No.”
“Why not?” Sullivan asked.
“Because I talked to him this morning. He didn’t know who Craig Archer was.”
“You believed him? I think the Roanoke police would like to decide whether he’s telling the truth.”
“I’d love for the Roanoke police to talk to him. But twenty minutes after he swore his innocence, I found him dead in his pickup with one gunshot to the head. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”
Sullivan whistled under his breath. “Somebody shut him up.”
“That’s the way I see it. And somebody shut up Craig Archer. I don’t know what Archer’s game was, but I didn’t tell him I was Walter Thomson. Either he or someone else wanted my identity a secret, or wanted to make it look like I’d given him a false name.”
“Was Khoury killed in Staunton?” Sullivan asked.
“Yes. I found him at a farmhouse he’d rented.”
“What do the Staunton police think?”
“They don’t think anything.”
Sullivan’s round Irish face bloomed red. “I can’t condone keeping the murder of that man from the authorities.”
“I haven’t kept it from the authorities. I placed an anonymous tip. I’ve learned when the deputies got there, the truck and the body were gone. They think my call was a prank.”
Sidney pointed to the photo in Mullins’ hand. “Somebody murdered that man and then cleaned up the scene after you left?”
“Yes. And pretty damn quick. I phoned in less than fifteen minutes. The deputies would probably have been there in under ten.”
“Where were you when Khoury was killed?” Sullivan asked.
“Still in his farmhouse. That’s where I found this picture.”
“You let him go?”
Mullins reddened. “He sort of got the jump on me. My car was too far away to give chase. I found him as I was leaving.”
“Do you think whoever killed him knew you were there?”
“Possibly.”
“That makes no sense,” Sullivan said.
“I know,” Mullins agreed.
“What?” Sidney asked. “I don’t understand.”
“Why didn’t they kill me?”
“They thought you were armed.”
“Then why leave the body in the truck where I could find it and then remove it before the police arrived?”
“Did you touch anything?” Sidney asked. “Maybe they were hoping you’d incriminate yourself. You know, tie you to that death and then Archer and even Luguire sound plausible.”
“He’s got a point,” Sullivan said.
“Maybe. If I’d called the police from the scene, they might have killed me and either left or removed both of us. But when I drove off, they could have thought I was on the run, and that suited them fine.”
“Why?” Sullivan asked.
“Because Fares Khoury thought I was part of a conspiracy. He’d been told to expect me and that I was supposed to deliver the bomb to its destination.”
“Bomb?” Sullivan and Sidney said in unison.
“Yes. Fares Khoury had assembled fertilizer and fuel oil. Yesterday, someone removed them and a journal he’d been keeping. Khoury thought that I was taking the bomb to Richmond to blow up the Federal Reserve Bank.”
“My God,” Sidney exclaimed. “That’s the big picture?”
“No. There are the other eleven regional Federal Reserve banks as well.”
Sullivan got to his feet and paced. “You’re not keeping that to yourself, are you?”
“No. The information’s being relayed to someone I trust. The relevant agencies are making a coordinated investigation. But we’re not to breathe a word. They’ll want to wrap this network up with one swoop. They’ve got the twelve locations, and they’ve got a target date.”
“When?”
“July Fourth. This Saturday. But there’s another complication. Khoury told me a thirteenth target has been added. The one I’m supposed to take out.”
“Washington headquarters?” Sidney asked.
“That’s what we think.”
“That’s quite a story,” Sullivan said. “So, why are we sitting here?”
“Because too many things indicate internal complicity. And I think after the planned attack, the investigation will look for someone on the inside. My name has popped up too many places for me not to be the possible fall guy. In some ways, I’m made to order, a former insider who’s now an outsider.”
“Don’t they know you’re on to them?” Sullivan asked.
“Maybe not. Or maybe it’s too late to change plans. Either way, I don’t think they know the extent of my knowledge. That’s why I’m staying clear of everything.”
Sullivan returned to the chair. “I don’t understand how you got on to this. Sounds like they were planting evidence you were never intended to see.”
“Someone inside the Federal Reserve discovered a breach in cyber-security. An unauthorized transfer of funds had been made, supposedly by Paul Luguire. This person came to me the morning after Luguire died, convinced that the breach had been made by someone on the inside.”
“Before Luguire’s death?” Sidney asked.
“Just days before. The person had told only Luguire because of the implications such a security breach carried.”
Sidney shook his head. “Not only a security breach but an operational anomaly. Luguire didn’t deal with member banks. He worked with Treasury.”
“Whatever. I don’t claim to understand how the Fed works. But we think Luguire went investigating. To make a long story short, Luguire was killed, my name was linked to the account, and that’s when we realized my connection to Luguire was being exploited. I was being set up.”
“Why are you trusting us?” Sullivan asked.
“Both of you are too far down the food chain. But you have resources and access I can use.”
“This plot smacks of terrorism,” Sullivan said.
“I know. But I don’t think Fares Khoury is a terrorist. I think he’s the real fall guy. He pleaded with me to save his family. He thought I had control of them.”
“He sounds like a willing participant to me,” Sullivan argued. “He loses his home, he assembles the materials for a bomb, but then you catch him. How many suspects have you heard sing the tune ‘Somebody Made Me Do It’ when they thought the game was up? And I hate to say it, but the guy fits the profile.”
“I found an envelope containing severed hair and a note with one word, ‘Remember.’ The hair is the same color as the hair of the wife and little girl.”
Sullivan took a sip of coffee and thought about the meaning of Mullins’ discovery. “He could have been forcibly recruited?”
“I saw his face. I know how to read a face. He was terrified for his family.”
“Have you got this envelope?”
“No. I turned it over. Any fingerprints or DNA might be the only lead to who’s behind the attacks. But I did hold back a few strands of hair.” He pulled a small Ziploc bag from his pocket.
“What else have you got in your pockets?” Sullivan asked.
Mullins smiled, as he withdrew a larger Ziploc. “Khoury was a diabetic. I traced him through his insulin prescription. Here’s a pen he used for his injections. I thought you could run a trace on the prints, just in case he turns up in the system somewhere.”