ROGUESTATE, page 18
Feldman dove into a budget report fresh from the Bureau’s accounting department. A new fiscal year should have started on the first of the month, but the President and the Congress were still wrestling over the numbers, and the House of Representatives had departed to get reelected. It left the government in limbo working off last year’s budget numbers and playing with unallocated funds.
“Ellen, you took a G3 and four agents to Chicago earlier this week.” Feldman popped his eyes over the top of his glasses, expecting a good explanation. “According to this expense memo, you were investigating the murder of two people, even though the Chicago Police Department indicates the murders were drug related.”
Startled by Feldman’s direct challenge, Ellen paused to collect her thoughts.
“What was your justification for such an expensive trip?” demanded Rita as she flicked her multicolored pen to take notes.
Cecil pursed his lips and his blue eyes sparkled gleefully. Feldman had discovered a new game called budgetary priorities, and he intended to play it at their expense. Cecil loved games and licked his lips hungrily as the scene unfolded.
Ellen looked from Feldman to Rita Mason, sensing the predator behind flawless makeup and thousand-dollar pants suits. “Elisa Hyder and her father came up on our terrorist screens. Their deaths were cold blooded murder.”
“That’s usually the case when drugs are involved,” answered Feldman sharply.
“They were tortured,” persisted Ellen.
Feldman rolled his eyes. “They probably had money tucked under the mattress or something, and you’ve got a hopped up junkie. What do you expect?”
Ellen pressed her lips together and replied, “There are anomalies in the evidence.”
“Anomalies,” snipped Rita. She made it sound like a vulgarity.
Dwayne was scribbling notes on his own papers. It seemed certain Feldman’s budgetary laser would illuminate his queries after Irv Fredricks.
Cecil followed the verbal volley as if he were secret spectator at Wimbledon.
“Yes, anomalies,” Ellen said sharply. “Nothing was stolen, and the house was in decent order…”
“Except for two dead bodies,” observed Feldman.
Feldman appeared determined to trip up Ellen’s defense. Ellen flashed angry eyes, “Elisa Hyder’s car is still missing.”
“Stolen,” concluded Rita confidently.
“No!” snapped Ellen.
Rita dropped her eyes, but Cecil caught the smile playing along her lips.
“And what leads you to this conclusion,” asked Feldman softly.
Cecil had been around since the Hoover days. When he arrived from the Academy to his first field assignment, the Bureau was intent on capturing bad guys. J. Edgar Hoover studiously avoided diversity and racial quotas under his watch. He kept files on everyone and brazenly used the Bureau to secure his place amongst Washington’s powerbrokers. Hoover wrapped the Bureau in an illusory blanket called virtue, and he destroyed anyone who dared challenge his authority.
Whatever Feldman and Mason purported to be, Cecil decided they were nothing more than bureaucrats whose view of a bad guy was someone spending more money than was allocated to a budget line item. He licked his lips anticipating the coming storm.
Ellen seemed befuddled, and she floundered, searching for the correct words.
“I see,” continued Feldman. “We have aGulfstream III and four additional agents for a two-day investigation in Chicago. Perhaps you could explain why the local field office was not sufficient to chase down your inquiries.”
Cecil narrowed his eyes and interrupted Feldman’s carefully rehearsed example. “I believe Ms. Grafft was simply doing her job.”
Both Rita and Feldman turned automatically to the sixty-five–year–old agent poised at the end of the table.
“We are in the terrorism business,” he reminded them, “and department policy states that a special agent has discretion to investigate any matter with sufficient anomalies.”
Feldman forced an understanding smile through his lips. It was time to find a gold watch for Cecil. “Sufficient anomalies—I guess that’s the problem here.”
Cecil nodded and held up a finger. “One, we have Parvez Hyder, who entered the country after a ten-year absence, and shortly thereafter, his mother and grandfather are murdered.”
He stuck up a second finger. “Two, we have a missing automobile belonging to Elisa Hyder and a bogus NCIC trace for the vehicle issued by the Chicago Police Department. A request the Chicago PD denies issuing.” He peeked over his grandfatherly spectacles and asked, “I’m not going too fast for you am I, Rita?”
Rita glanced up from her notepad and shook her head.
Cecil forestalled Feldman’s interruption and continued, “Three, the murders were carried out with different weapons. Was it the work of a deranged child, or someone else?”
Feldman held up a hand to stop Cecil, who ignored him. “Four, Marianna Hyder has disappeared.”
“This isn’t even your case!” snapped an exasperated Feldman.
Cecil acknowledged the fact with a brief nod. “And five, the Russian FSB issued an Interpol warrant for someone matching Parvez Hyder’s description. They claim he’s a Chechen partisan.”
Ellen blurted out, “When did you hear that?”
Feldman wrinkled his brow, recognizing the old man had outmaneuvered him. “I check Interpol every day against our current terrorist list,” explained Cecil as he slid a sheet from his own notebook. “You’ll note the similarities between Hyder’s passport photograph and the Interpol poster.”
Dwayne bent his neck to examine the grainy black and white photographs side-by-side on Cecil’s paper.
“Since when did we start listening to the Russians?” queried Rita.
Cecil smiled disarmingly and shook his head. “Not the Russians, but Ms. Grafft. Parvez Hyder came up on her printouts. I’ve merely confirmed her suspicions and justified your very real budgetary concerns.” His gaze drifted from Rita to Feldman.
“Yes, well thank you, Cecil,” mumbled Feldman uncomfortably.
Cecil nodded kindly.
Feldman brought the meeting to a premature end, never asking after Dwayne’s Alabama inquiries, or Cecil’s budgetary overage for computer and lab time.
After Feldman and Rita left the room, Ellen turned to Cecil and said, “Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it,” he replied off-handedly. “Sometimes you need to manage up the food chain.”
“Yes,” murmured Ellen.
“By the way,” he continued, “I don’t think your search for Hyder’s car will be very successful.”
“Oh?”
“If Hyder truly is a Chechen fighter, then he has been eluding a mechanized army for quite a while. He won’t have any long term need for a vehicular conveyance.”
“Meaning?”
Cecil canted his head slightly. “Meaning he will abandon the car as soon as he reaches his target region.”
Ellen’s stomach tossed disagreeably. “So you believe the Russian Interpol warning?”
Cecil gave her one his patented smiles. “No, I don’t believe anything the Russians say. I believe facts, and you have a passel of them. Your instincts are correct with regard to Elisa Hyder and her father in Chicago. However, I don’t think the son killed his mother.”
“It seems the most likely.”
He nodded. “Yes, yes—the obvious explanation. Everything fits except for the seemingly bogus NCIC request. It’s a disturbing fact that doesn’t fit your tidy scenario.”
“I don’t follow you,” she said with a puzzled tone.
“Russians,” he declared, as if that explained everything. Ellen continued to look confused. “When Russians are involved then you believe nothing on the surface.” Cecil had spent thirty years chasing Russian spies through Washington, New York, and the Silicon Valley. So many of the old spy hunters had retired, died or left the Bureau, and the new breed did not understand America’s old enemy very well.
“Russians?” she asked.
“Russians,” replied Cecil confidently.
He was half right.
* * * *
Parvez Hyder no longer possessed his mother’s vehicle. Twice each day he dialed a phone number and checked for messages. Two days ago, Marianna relayed to him the news that the FBI had arrived on the scene to investigate the murders of Mama and Grandpapa.
He had spent the better part of the last five years evading the Interior Ministry troops, the anemic Red Army, and secret policemen. It was hardly an effort to slip away from the Bureau. He melted away into the nameless, faceless oblivion offered by homeless shelters and soup kitchens.
The American homeless fared much better than Chechnya’s refugees. While there was the occasional street mugging and unfortunate death due to exposure or sickness, the American homeless did not dodge Russian bullets or fear iron bombs from the sky. They wandered with their torn knapsacks and heavy-duty garbage bags until they found a quiet spot to sleep it off.
Parvez knew how to vanish amidst a refugee population. Dirt, grime, and mud were no strangers. He had lived off garbage, road kill, and the miserly provisions found in the Caucasus Mountains. Shamil Basayev taught him how to humble himself before policemen, and then strike as they turned away, certain he was nothing more than another hapless beggar. Eventually, he drifted away from the homeless shelters and concentrated on the problem at hand—the District’s sewer system.
The District of Columbia Water and Sewer Authority (WASA) operates a wastewater management system comprised of separate and combined sewers. The oldest part of the system covers one third of the District—roughly 12,640 acres. It is bordered by Rock Creek on the northwest and the Anacostia River on the southeast.
The combined sewer system handles both storm sewer runoff and wastewater that is processed at the Blue Plains Wastewater Treatment Plant where the Potomac exits along the District’s southern tip.
A different sewer system designed to keep sanitary and storm sewers separate was added to the original system over the last one hundred years. Both the Naval Observatory, which serves as the Vice President’s residence, and the Russian Federation Embassy are located north of the demarcation line between the older combined system and new separate system.
Along the Potomac River, the Anacostia River, Rock Creek, and the minor tributary waters are outfalls built to handle the overflow situations. According to the National Pollution Discharge Elimination System permit issued to the District, there are sixty outfall outlets. Parvez had a rough map indicating that twenty-six outfalls were located along Rock Creek.
A portion of the old system stretches north of Rock Creek towards the Vice President’s residence and the trendy Foxhall neighborhood. Embassy Row does not rely solely on the D.C. Metropolitan Police Department to provide security. In addition to the civilian police force, the Treasury Department uses uniformed Secret Service patrols to maintain a constant vigil on Embassy security. The Russian Federation had its uniformed guards as well. Everyone used the streets, and the sewers ran under the streets.
The outfall was innocuous white brickwork forming a square hole guarded by an iron grate. There were three outfalls on the northwest side of Rock Creek. A one-inch bolt and a rusting lock secured the grate. The bolt cutter cut the lock away, allowing Parvez to slip inside the storm sewer armed with a flashlight, a compass, and his GPS.
Any motorcade from the Russian Federation Embassy had to cross either Massachusetts Avenue NW
or Macomb Street NW
. The likely route would eventually travel down either Connecticut or Massachusetts Avenues towards the White House. The White House, along with everything else in the Mall, was a hard target. A myriad of security forces eyeballed, scanned, and nervously monitored the tourists. Parvez was convinced the only opportunity to accomplish his mission was during the transit between the Embassy and the White House.
Parvez believed Connecticut Avenue
was the most likely route to be favored by security personnel, because it passed the National Zoological Park. Security personnel could easily sanitize the park. During the two battles of Grozny, he had a chance to observe the protective service companies charged with flag officer security. Amidst the horrific ruins, they became predictable. He understood how they would think and what they would think about. No one expected landmines in Washington D.C.
Parvez slipped a notebook from his shirt pocket and examined the GPS readings. He flipped on the flashlight and started walking. The storm sewer was tall enough for Parvez to stand upright. Occasionally he had to clamber over one of the built-in dams designed to manage the ebb and flow of storm water.
He steadily worked north and west through the tunnels. Light filtered down from the street grates covering the sewer drains along the street gutters and curbs. It gave Parvez a sense of how deep the sewer ran. He estimated ten to twelve feet separated the top of the sewer from the street surface.
Not surprisingly, the street names were spray painted on the side of the sewer walls. WASA maintenance personnel would need to have a sense of where they were inside the cavernous system. The hand-painted signage served to confirm the GPS coordinates and Parvez realized he would need a primary explosion to stop the motorcade, and a secondary explosive to kill Putin once the security people moved him from his armored limousine.
The timing would be difficult, but not impossible. It would take a considerable amount of dynamite, and several nights to get everything ready. He had time—it was still October.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Washington D.C.,FOX NEWS,October 28, 2000 –An FBI spokesman defended the Bureau’s controversial CARNIVORE system. CARNIVORE is an Internet monitoring system that can intercept all Internet Traffic.
Privacy advocates say the practice of intercepting Internet traffic for all users, even for a brief time, could run contrary to federal privacy laws and even the U.S. Constitution on unreasonable searches and seizure.
Representative Bob Barr (R-GA.) said, “If there’s one word I would use to describe this, it would be ‘frightening.’”
Dulles International Airport
Saturday, October 28, 2000
3:00 P.M. EDT
Kurt Martin emerged from the customs arrival gates and found a limousine driver holding a card with his name. He was road weary, having spent the last twenty-four hours negotiating flights from Panama City, Panama, back to Washington D.C.
Conner Fadden had been sighted three times in the last forty hours. He was riding the D.C. Metro trains. Passport control had no record of Conner leaving Panama City, much less entering the United States. The lack of official documentation did not surprise Adrian Bridger, after all, Conner was chosen forSpanish Poppy because he possessed the skills to slip effortlessly across national borders.
The limousine driver took Kurt’s bag and led him out of the terminal.
Kurt Martin slid inside the limousine and found Adrian Bridger waiting. A smoked glass, soundproof partition separated them from the driver. Bridger looked up from a file folder. Bridger nodded to Martin’s seat and checked one last thing before slipping the folder into his brief case.
The satellite phone, fax machine, laptop computer, and wet bar were not lost on Martin. Bridger opened a compartment and handed Martin a pistol rug. “I understand you prefer a .45.”
Martin unzipped the rug and flipped it open on his knees. He found a Ruger P90 with two ten-round magazines and third loaded into the pistol. The ten-round magazines replaced the factory supplied seven-round standard magazine and provided an extra inch to the grip. “Yes,” he breathed, “this will do nicely.”
“I expect you to kill Conner Fadden and complete this matter in the next thirty-six hours,” explained Bridger. He handed Martin a file folder.
Martin paged through the photographs taken by surveillance cameras at different Metro stations. Martin knew enough not to ask Bridger where the photographs came from. Bridger was the sort of man one did not question too closely.
“We first sighted him at the Crystal City station,” began Bridger.
“He simply appeared?” queried Martin.
Bridger nodded.
The photographs were time stamped and location labeled. In each frame Conner Fadden was outlined in white.
“Our experts believe he is carrying a weapon. I think you should expect him to be armed and dangerous.”
Martin nodded.
“It would be best if no one found the body,” continued Bridger, “but the primary objective is to eliminate Conner Fadden. Don’t disappoint me.”
Martin nodded more vigorously the second time.
Bridger handed Martin a pager and explained, “This is a message pager. Whenever we sight Fadden it’ll go off. When you’ve finished, lose this as well.”
Finally, Bridger handed Martin a set of car keys. “Just leave it somewhere with the keys in the ignition and the doors unlocked.”
Martin flipped the keys into the air and caught them.
The limousine rolled to a halt. Martin gathered his things together and clambered out the door. The last thing he heard before the door slammed shut was, “Don’t disappoint me.”
* * * *
Silver Spring, Maryland
A box of donuts rested on the car’s dashboard. Plugged into the cigarette lighter was a laptop equipped with a cellular modem. On the passenger-side floor rested a soft-sided cooler filled with a half dozen strawberry-banana yogurt cups. Joining the donuts on the dashboard was another half dozen empty yogurt cups.
Harvey rested behind the steering wheel with his Stetson pulled down to the edge of his nose. Next to him sat Mark Schaeffer and a thumbed through copy of theNational Review . Schaeffer was bored and the day did not promise anything but the same tedious watch. His leg was bouncing and he wanted to get out of the car and walk around. Harvey squelched that idea.
