Blood Covenent, page 22
“That night while I was asleep, David sewed the covenant into the lining. He knew I would be searched before I left, but David knew what they looked for,” she chuckled. “He told me he had some sort of device that could fry their listening devices in his lab. Every so often he would turn it on. He claimed it caused a loud squeal in their headphones. But while I was there, he took the brief moments as we eluded the listeners to tell me two things.
“The first was that I must leave Russia before the end of the century, becauseSAMSON would kill many people. I presumeSAMSON is some kind of bomb, but beyond that I had no idea what David was talking about. I do know this: if my brother decided to do something at the end of the century, it would take a very smart man to stop him. It doesn’t matter that my brother is dead; his legacy will live on.
“The second was about my coat. When he hugged me good bye, before the KGB Major took me back home, he said, ‘Rachel, you must wear this coat when you leave for Israel, and when you get there you must rip it in half as Abraham did with the heifer when God promised the covenant.’
“Two crazy statements, but things I would understand. We both sat with Joseph on those cold nights and learned everything he had to teach us. I wore the coat he gave me for years, and when I arrived here.” She thumped the table. “I remembered what David told me, I ripped the coat in half and found his covenant. It’s written in Hebrew. He left a cover letter that said, ‘Someday, someone may come and ask aboutSAMSON . If they come from the West, give them the letter. If they come from the East, burn it.’”
She rose and walked across the kitchen to a small cupboard. From there, she removed a small plastic envelope. The paper was yellow inside and the ink fading. But it appeared to have never been opened. Rachel handed an astounded Louis Edwards the envelope, and said, “This is what you came for, Policeman.”
* * * *
JFK International Airport, New York
Michael Rehazi sported a red mustache and a reddish blond wig. His eyes were clouded behind horn-rimmed glasses, and he walked quickly towards the TWA Gate at JFK for the flight down to Washington, D.C. The same Compaq laptop swung freely under his shoulder, and the cluster of security cameras dutifully recorded his passage.
Five hours later Janet’s system processed the image and decided this was another candidate. The computer system executed an image copy and sent the digital picture to some fax software that came free with one of the half dozen modems Janet had installed on her systems.
Twice since Janet’s code changes on Saturday, Feldman’s paper tray had run out of paper receiving images from Janet’s system. Considering he had a five-hundred-sheet capacity tray, they were well into the third ream of paper. The fax arrived late in the afternoon, and Feldman ignored the constant hum from the machine. He had assigned ten men to chase pictures, then added another ten. When the number hit thirty, he sat back and considered what was happening. It was time for a peace offering.
CHAPTER 22
New York City
Tuesday, July 13, 1999
9:00 A.M. EDT
Harvey Randall sat in a federal motor-pool vehicle. The car was a poorly equipped Ford Taurus with putrid tan interior and painted an unknown green shade. It was a car only the government would buy.
Harvey parked along a series of vacant lots. He scratched his chin and checked the map book again. Leaning over to the passenger seat he flipped open his briefcase and pulled the reams of paper he had retrieved from the New York Department of Motor Vehicles in Albany. It always amazed him what people would do when confronted by a federal badge. Yesterday, he had rousted two state workers to research license registration, payments, and insurance information.
Feldman gave him the vehicle, because the vehicle was a dead end. Feldman was correct as far as it went. However, Feldman rarely considered the more devious side of life. Harvey schooled himself in the underside of human behavior, and one thing he learned when settling the estate for his deceased parents is that the government is interested in everything, but it really can only track those things that are licensed or registered.
The IRS might want to count every paperclip and bath towel in an effort to attach a monetary value for taxation, but those things could disappear or slip off the table. Where the taxman excelled was in registered things, like cars, property, bank accounts, and stock portfolios. There was no way to deny the taxman knowledge of those very personal items, and they would demand a proper accounting on the next 1040. His father never believed in estate planning, so Harvey found himself facing probate. A hard lesson, but one not lost. With what little remained of his own assets depleted by child support, college tuition, and alimony payments, Harvey discovered the art of hiding things.
There are a variety of ways to shroud assets: offshore accounts, gold coins, and the ever-present mattress. What little money Harvey still retained after his paycheck dutifully carved up between his ex-wife, the Social Security Administration, and various state and local interests, Harvey learned to invest and hide. Living in Wyoming, where tax protest was a way of life, Harvey perfected his craft.
The physical vehicle was untraceable. The serial numbers from the front axle had no relationship to the rear ones. The VIN (Vehicle Identification Number) on the engine block and front dashboards, while filed down, could still be examined. They were a mismatch. Even the tires seemed to be from different lots. Harvey had no interest in the car. He simply wrote down the license plate number and wandered away.
A simple check determined the plates were not reported stolen. The vehicle description for the plates roughly matched the van. It was a close enough match to describe a mind that wanted a legitimate looking vehicle, but with untraceable ownership. The license number led to a Post Office Box in New Jersey. The mail had not been collected for several weeks and a number of VISA card offers, sweepstake winnings, and catalogs were crammed into the small box.
The PO Box was registered to a very nice lady by the name of Emily Hawkins. There was only one problem: Emily was dead these last several years, but someone continued to pay for the box rental. A dead end, just like Feldman expected. Harvey was not very surprised. He simply wrote down the address and name, and continued to plod along.
Albany produced the motor vehicle record complete with an insurance policy number. Harvey continued his search. The insurance company had a branch office in Newark, New Jersey. Harvey flipped his badge at the two receptionists and the security guard. They eyed his cowboy boots and Stetson, not entirely sure he was a FBI agent. He allowed them to examine his identification for an additional twenty seconds. They also saw his gun as he reached into his jacket for some business cards. He did not act like a crazy man—he just dressed strange.
Harvey ended up in the cubicle of a single mom named Christine who ran her fingers over the keyboard like Kentucky thoroughbreds. She looked at the policy number scribbled on his note pad, then back to the screen. “That policy was issued four years ago to the South Boston Commercial Property Corporation.” Harvey rocked forward in his boots. What happened to Emily? He sensed he had found the edge of something; now he needed to get a grip on the edge and pull.
“How is the premium paid?” he asked.
The secret about insurance companies is they never throw anything away. Litigation, government regulations, and their own voluminous legal departments demand that every scrap of paper be kept in its original form. The previous twenty months of data was kept on a massive array of twelve CDROM drive towers attached to a significant VAX cluster in an air-conditioned vault at the company’s headquarters. Headquarters, Harvey learned from the company brochure, was located in Cleveland.
He nudged an apple-fritter Christine’s way and a fresh cup of coffee.
She dazzled him with a gleaming smile and asked quietly, “How does a nice guy like you end up as a cop?”
He shrugged.
Christine clicked across the screen. It was actually fun to work on something besides claim processing. The screen emerged with a photocopy of the check, and the check had a signature. Harvey’s grin turned into a smile.
“Want a copy?” She clicked PRINT on the window’s tool bar.
“Any chance we could see the policy?”
“I take it you want to see the front page.” She took a bite out of the fritter.
Harvey walked over to the printer and pulled the document copy. The funds were drawn from a Connecticut bank. Harvey slid the page into a new file folder he was keeping.
Christine had the policy pages displayed in an Acrobat Reader window. She moved to the second page where signatures were required, and the vehicle description complete with a VIN. Harvey compared the numbers. Not even close, but it did list the primary driver as Emily Hawkins.
“Do you want a copy of this too?”
“Please,” he purred. Emily was a busy lady.
From Christine and Newark, Harvey drove northeast along I-95 to Bridgeport, Connecticut. He read the bank’s address off the check’s photocopy and found a place to park. He arrived a little after two in the afternoon, and found himself sitting in one the vice president’s office. Everyone above clerk is generally a bank vice president, so Harvey waited patiently for the thirty-something lad to return to his office.
The badge and credentials produced a frown.
“I don’t see how I can release any information to you without some sort of permission or court order,” explained Daniel.
Harvey nodded understandingly. He hunched forward in the chair and said, “Look, I really don’t care about what they have in their bank account. I don’t want any confidential information, I just want to know where you mail the statements.”
“Yes, but that is considered confidential.” Daniel folded his hands like he was making a fortress.
Harvey nodded. “This is a friendly little chat we’re having here,” began Harvey. “I suppose you deal with the Feds everyday.”
“There is a lot of regulation,” replied Daniel.
“I don’t suppose you’d look at it as a friendly gesture to another federal agency, would you.”
“No, sir,” he switched his hands to a different fold.
Harvey pulled out his cell phone. “It wouldn’t do for an up and coming young man like yourself to become known as a troublemaker,” he said casually. With his thumb he flipped through the directory of numbers until he found Larry’s.
Daniel was eyeing the phone in Harvey’s hands. “No,” he said slowly. His resolve was slipping away faster than the sweat forming on his brow.
“I’ve got some friends over at Treasury and the FDIC. I guess I could ask them to come over and check the books. I mean all I want is a measly address, and who knows what they might find.” He locked eyes with Daniel.
Daniel locked his eyes on Harvey’s poised thumb over the SEND key. He smiled suddenly saying, “Perhaps, I could come up with an address.”
“Phone number and name, too.” Harvey added quickly.
Daniel nodded, defeated. He turned to the terminal on his desk.
Harvey left with two more pieces of paper in his folder. He settled into his Taurus and breathed deeply. The Saturday night poker games were paying off.
* * * *
He stared at the South Boston Commercial Property Corporation: seven empty lots in Brooklyn. The mailbox for the lots was clustered with those of a surrounding tenement. The South Boston Commercial Property Corporation took out insurance policies for stolen vehicles owned by dead people and maintained a corporate office with thistles, broken bottles, and the homeless who wandered across the land.
A dead end.
Harvey got out of the motor pool Taurus and walked across the street. In his file folder, he had checks, insurance policies, and bank records. They all led him here. Property no one in their right mind would purchase. The neighborhood was crime-ridden and depressed. Pushers and pimps peddled their product to the people in the surrounding area. It was not a place he would choose to be during the evening, but someone owned this land.
He kicked some empty cans and watched trash blow across his path. Harvey stood in the middle of the lots and looked around.Nothing ! Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to hide, and now that same someone was mounting a major offensive operation against the United States.
The property tax records were equally frustrating. They were sent to this address to the attention of the South Boston Commercial Property Corporation. Taxes were promptly sent in from the same bank account.
Harvey took another look around the lots. He was supposed to be frustrated; instead, he was intrigued. When he had worked counter-intelligence operations for the Bureau, before thefall , Harvey had traced similar problems. Harvey’s problem was competence. He came too close to the truth. It was part of the reason for his banishment to West Yellowstone, and he knew once this mess was over; he would be shuttled to the airport and sent away.
He ambled back to the Taurus. Anyone can become a corporation simply by filling out a form and indicating in the DOING BUSINESS AS box what the name is. Harvey figured he could access the New York and Connecticut Secretary of State databases from the Federal Building. It might take a while before he found an answer, but somebody filled out a form somewhere and provided a real address. It was a matter of cutting through the bureaucratic tangle.
* * * *
Tel Aviv, Israel
Chaim Wanberg tipped the plastic bottle of water to his lips. He waited for Louis to finish reading the English translation of David Kudrik’s covenant. Open on the desk next to the translation was theSAMSON file. On a legal pad next to the covenant, he jotted a series of notes. Finally, he looked across the desk to Chaim.
“So, is it real?”
Louis tugged his mustache.Could anybody be this crazy? The audacity of the plan, and the thought behind the effort, was astounding. David Kudrik used the Soviet’s secrecy against itself. Louis felt dizzy as he looked up at Chaim. “It has to be; he lists the bomb’s specifications. He used some sort of warhead configuration he figured out and could produce a significantly higher yield with less fissile material than anyone thought possible. He describes the weapon’s shape and configuration, and, although he claims he is working off the prototype, things didn’t change too much from what we found in New York.”
“And you think these things could be here?” Chaim asked, getting to the heart of the matter.
Louis nodded. “You know this man.” He fished from his briefcase Hassan Jamal’s dossier. “He’s Hezbollah trained in Iran and financed by all your neighbors.”
Chaim lit another cigarette and nodded. “What about him?”
“He’s dead,” replied Louis flatly. “He armed the first bomb on Saturday. If somebody like Jamal had the weapon, New York would not be the first target. No matter how much the Iranians and Iraqis hate us, they hate you more. You’ve got to be the primary target.”
Chaim scowled and picked up the phone on his desk. He spoke quickly and ordered a sweep for anyone remotely associated with Jamal or Hezbollah.
“There’ll be protests,” warned Louis.
“If I lose half of Tel Aviv, there’ll be more than protests.” He peered over the desk and asked, “You have anything else in there I should see?”
“No.”
Chaim ground out the half-smoked cigarette and flipped open a folder. It was the service record for Major Yevgeny Yarovitsin. The MOSSAD kept extremely tight tabs on all potential nuclear threats. There were the obvious players of Russia and China, the secondary players like Iraq and Iran, and the true wildcards like Pakistan, India, and North Korea.
“I’ll give you the short version. Yarovitsin was the KGB’s primary procurement officer of western technology for a group of nuclear scientists at Arzamas-16. We watched him, told your people about his activities, and there were some near misses in trying to catch him. In those days, he went as an agricultural attaché and didn’t use any sort of disguise.”
“When was this—early eighties?”
Chaim smiled, his white teeth long since dulled by the cigarettes. “Precisely, Louis. Then things changed. We lost him for a long time. When we caught up to him again, he might have been a major, but he was traveling like a general. There were limousines at his service, a dacha on the Black Sea, and diplomatic jets for his transport. By 1986, he was visiting most of the major NATO capitols—allegedly on inspection tours, but when did a major get those types of privileges?
“The other thing we noted was the fear he instilled wherever he went. He demanded the best food, kicked ambassadors out of their residences, and entertained prostitutes. Bodyguards surrounded him, but they changed frequently and the opportunity to infiltrate his security was marginal.
“Interspersed with these public travels were the clandestine missions. These we are less certain about, but we do know he visited London several times, and Paris to a lesser extent. Then the wall comes down and he vanishes.”
“Completely?”
Chaim smiled quietly. “Almost. Somewhere before the end of the Soviet Union he established several foreign bank accounts. Some Swiss, some Jamaican, and some in Lebanon, and there are probably others we don’t know about. After the Soviet Union dissolved, huge sums of money moved through some of these accounts.”
“How much?”
“At least two billion dollars, and that’s what we know about.”
Louis stared at the folder. The glossy Cold War picture stared back at them.Where are you now? wondered Louis.
“I think we can assume the good major did a booming post-Soviet business,” concluded Chaim.
How many weapons does two billion dollars represent?Louis closed his eyes. David Kudrik’s genie had left its bottle and was roaming the world.
“I think you have to assume you are the target of some of these weapons.”
Chaim nodded and stubbed out another cigarette. “Yes, Louis, but they don’t know about the countdown timer.”
