Murder in Foggy Bottom (18 page)

24

That Same Day
The J. Edgar Hoover Building

The director, Joe Harris, and Sydney Wingate listened intently, making only an occasional written note but saying nothing to interrupt Special Agent Skip Traxler as he presented his report on the months spent undercover with Jasper. He spoke for forty-five minutes, using a series of photographs, sketches, and an audiotape to illustrate the points he wished to make. Included in his evidence that the Jasper Project was behind the missile attacks were copies of maps and charts, including aeronautical charts of Boise, Idaho, San Jose, California, and Westchester County airport, New York, he’d managed to photocopy before being forced to flee the ranch.

He concluded, “I think that covers it. Happy to answer any questions.”

There was silence in Templeton’s office until the director said, “A most impressive job, Agent Traxler. You’re to be commended.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Templeton had watched Traxler make his presentation with a sense of pride. The forty-year-old special agent looked the way Templeton wanted FBI special agents to look—military bearing, physically fit, hair close-cropped, clear-eyed, dressed conservatively in a gray suit, white shirt, and muted tie. In the days when only accountants or lawyers were acceptable candidates to become special agents, there was that sense of a military unit. But as criteria for admission to the Bureau broadened, so did the style of its agents, resulting in the demise of the “IBM look”—dark suits and white shirts were now being replaced by the more casual attire of the new, Silicon Valley generation.

The director referred to his notes. “That audiotape you played,” he said. “It’s not very audible.”

“It was recorded under difficult circumstances, sir,” Traxler said. “But I think the thrust of it comes through loud and clear. Jasper intends further attacks.”

“But it doesn’t specify what form those attacks might take,” Templeton said.

“True, sir, but considering that he masterminded bringing down three civilian aircraft with innocent victims aboard, it’s reasonable to assume, I think, that future attacks will be similar in nature.”

“Let me see those pictures,” Templeton said to Harris, who was staring at them. He handed them to the director, who adjusted his half-glasses and squinted as he took a close look. “These shots of the weapons storage shed,” he said to Traxler. “You say those bags on the shelf are the ones used to transport the missiles to California, Idaho, and New York?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And they’re empty.”

“Yes, sir. There are only two of them. The one used to transport the missile to California never came back to the ranch.”

“I’m a little confused, Agent Traxler. You say the missiles were carried from Jasper’s ranch to California, New York, and Idaho by members of his group, but that those same people weren’t necessarily the ones who actually fired them at the planes.”

“That’s correct, sir. Jasper is affiliated with other groups around the country. I’ve included the names of the ones I know in my report. It’s my understanding that members of those splinter groups used the missiles supplied by Jasper, but I can’t be certain of that.”

“Who actually transported the missiles from the ranch?”

“Page seven, sir. Those names are listed there.”

Templeton sat back, removed his glasses, and frowned.

“How did the three missiles end up in Jasper’s hands, Skip?” Harris asked. “You say they were smuggled into the country by Chinese arms dealers. How did Jasper make the contact with these dealers?”

“I don’t know,” Traxler responded. “I tried to find out but didn’t want to push it. I sensed I was walking on thinner ice and wasn’t about to blow my cover.” He smiled. “As it turned out, my cover
was
blown, but you know about that.”

“What blew it?” Templeton asked.

A shrug from Traxler. “I don’t know specifically. Lots of times it isn’t any one thing. You just know that they’re looking at you in a different way from when you managed to infiltrate.”

“And fortunately you recognized it when you did and were able to get out in one piece,” Sydney Wingate said.

“Wasn’t hard to recognize it,” Traxler said, smiling. “Jasper sent two of his people after me with guns. I got the message.”

Wingate asked Traxler, “As far as you know, Skip, they don’t have any other missiles in their possession.”

“Correct,” Traxler replied. “At least I didn’t see any.”

“You say the missiles came through Chinese arms dealers.”

“According to Jasper.”

Templeton came forward, elbows on his desk. “When did you learn of the missile attacks on the civilian aircraft, Agent Traxler?”

“When? After the fact, sir. If I’d known in advance, I would have passed the information along to—” He looked at Wingate and almost said Elephant Man. “To Agent Wingate, sir. Jasper kept the operation very much to himself. It was only after the planes had been attacked that he talked openly about it, bragged about it, to be more accurate. He had the TV on day and night after it happened and damn near cheered as the news reports came through at how successful the attacks had been, the number of people dead as a result. Those times were the toughest for me. I wanted to shoot the bastard right there in the lodge.”

“I can understand,” said Templeton, “and I applaud your restraint.” He turned to the others. “Anything else?”

“Jasper gives the impression that he’s a reasonable man, sir,” Traxler said. “Former college professor, Bible reader, which he uses to bolster his claims, a father figure on the ranch. But beneath that veneer is a madman. He once told me that if the government ever attacked and tried to take the ranch from him, he’d kill every man, woman, and child there before he went down.”

After a few moments of silence, Templeton said, “Thank you for coming here, Agent Traxler, and for your superb job of infiltration under what were obviously difficult circumstances.”

“I was honored to be chosen to do it, sir.”

Traxler stood.

“Agent Traxler has requested an extended leave, sir,” Wingate said, “and I’ve granted it. He’ll remain in the safe house for a few more days, then go to a place of his choosing. Naturally, we’ll be in daily contact in the event he’s needed again.”

“Good,” Templeton said, coming around the desk and shaking Traxler’s hand.

When Traxler was gone, Templeton said to Harris and Wingate, “I’ve arranged a meeting with the attorney general at five. He’s been briefed on what Traxler’s report contains, and the nature of this briefing. If he now agrees, and the president does, too, and criminal charges are brought, we’ll make our move. In the meantime, we’re continuing to position ourselves for a possible assault on the Jasper ranch. Naturally, we’ll want to resolve it peacefully, have Jasper and his people give themselves up. But if they don’t . . .”

“We’re ready for that possibility, sir,” Harris said.

“Yes, we must be ready to move. Thank you, gentlemen, for a fine job. I wish Agent Traxler had better information on the other groups involved in this, Jasper’s partners.”

“That’ll come,” said Harris, “through Jasper once he’s in custody. As I said this morning, sir, we got lucky. More than five hundred hate groups around the country and we placed Scope in the right one.”

“I don’t believe in luck,” Templeton said. “The Federal Bureau of Investigation does not believe in luck. We make our own good luck. Excuse me. I have calls to make.”

25

Two Days Later
Moscow

Max Pauling had used his first five days back in Moscow to settle in at the United States embassy, occupying the office that had been his the year before, until he was reassigned to Washington. It was one of six such offices in the ECO/COM division under the leadership of William Lerner, ostensibly to foster trade and commerce, in reality providing intelligence to the CIA on Russian industry, legitimate and, increasingly, not so legitimate. He spent part of his time in the Russian city poring over reports generated by others in the division, and communiqués from CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, channeled through Lerner. He found most of the information to be of little use. A more productive exercise was reestablishing contacts with sources in Moscow’s nether-world, men and, more recently, women who knew more about Russia’s economic and industrial landscape than those in official capacities, and who were willing to sell what they knew for the right price. Pauling quickly learned from calls he made, and two lunches, that inflation was alive and well in every sector of the Russian economy, including the price of information.

Lerner had been away for the past two days at a conference in Ryazan, a hundred and fifty miles southeast of Moscow. He walked into Pauling’s office the morning after his return. A front had pushed through Moscow the previous night bringing a cold, drenching rain to the city on the broad Moskva River, home to more than nine million, and the unchallenged political, cultural, criminal, and economic center of all things Russian.

Lerner shook water from his raincoat and hat.

“You’re making puddles on my floor,” Pauling said.

“Better your floor than mine.” Lerner hung the coat and hat on a coat tree and took a chair across the desk.

“Good trip?” Pauling asked.

“Excruciatingly boring,” Lerner replied, “but that’s expected. How are you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Making progress?”

Pauling nodded. “I’m—”

Lerner held up his hand and raised his bushy, grizzled eyebrows. “Free for lunch?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Lerner stood and retrieved his coat and hat. “Sorry for the puddles, Max. One o’clock?”

“I’ll be here.”

At one, they took a taxi to Tren-Mos, on Ostozhenka ul, where Lerner was greeted by the owner, an American from Trenton, New Jersey, who’d opened the restaurant in 1989 in partnership with a Russian businessman. They were seated at a small table partially hidden from the rest of the dining area by a waist-high planter filled with flowers. A portrait of George Washington looked down at them from the wall above. A waiter who’d been working tables in the front of the room was dispatched by the owner to handle Lerner and his guest.

“Like being back home,” Pauling said, taking in the rest of the red-white-and-blue decor, including flags from the fifty states.

“A pleasant change,” Lerner said. “My friend named it Tren-Mos for Trenton and Moscow.”

“Very democratic.”

“Yes. I hadn’t thought of it that way. We can talk here. Too wet for the park.”

“Better food, too. I’ve set up a meeting with the guy your banker friend passed to you.”

“Good. When?”

“Tonight. I may put in for combat pay. We’re meeting at a disco. The Red Cat.”

“Disco not your musical cup of tea, Max?”

“You know it’s not. I brought six tapes with me, Ellington, Basie, Ella, Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw, and a vintage Miles Davis. My desert-island collection. We’re meeting at eleven.”

“Not past your bedtime?”

“Sure it is, but I’ll manage, catch a nap.”

Lerner chuckled. “Ah, yes, a nap. How did you reach this gentleman who’s fond of discotheques?”

“I called the number you gave me before you left, got a woman who thought she spoke English. She gave me another number. He was there.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I told him the banker suggested I call and that I would appreciate a chance to meet with him in person.”

“Did he balk, ask questions?”

“No, but I had the feeling the banker prepped him that a call would be coming. I’m sure he knows exactly what this is about.”

“I asked Mr. Miziyano for some background on this individual. He said he was a man of honor—”

“Of course.”

“A man of honor who could prove to be helpful in your business venture, provided you could come to terms.”

“Two hundred thousand.”

“That seems to be the asking price. Of course, others will have to be taken care of, too.”

“Like your fat friend.”

“And probably others. That’s not your concern.”

“What do I tell him about the money? Tonight, I mean.”

“That you’ll have to discuss what he has to offer with others.” Lerner smiled. “Your superior.”

“I’d like to give him the sense that I have more authority than that, Bill.”

“I’ve received final authorization for the money. Two hundred thousand. A bargain, actually, especially when you consider money is no object. If they demanded a million, they’d have it—provided their information is correct. You’ll have to make that judgment on the spot, Max. You’ll have the money with you; your discretion whether to turn it over.”

“I somehow don’t think they’ll let me leave without handing it over.”

“It’s out of my hands.”

Translation: You’re on your own, Pauling, no ties to anyone, nothing to fall back on except your own wits and experience in dealing with such people. In a sense, he preferred it that way. He had infinitely more faith in himself than in his employers, as well-meaning as Bill Lerner and the others might be.

“Any more questions?” Lerner asked.

“No.”

“You’ll see Sutherland before you meet.”

“Of course.”

“Good. Ah, our burgers and fries have arrived.” He turned to the waiter: “Ketchup, please.”

When Pauling walked into the Red Cat discotheque, he was engulfed in an orgiastic, undulating phantasmagoria. Music blared from six-foot-high speakers throughout the room, the thundering bass notes coming up from the floor and assaulting his legs like a jackhammer, the deafening, discordant scream of guitars and shrill voices numbing the senses. The vast dance floor was packed with gyrating men and women, mostly young, but with a few Pauling would have assumed had outgrown the disco craze.

This was music? He scanned the room. He’d been told to seek out the club’s manager, who would be at a raised podium on the north side of the club, from which the man could oversee what was going on. Pauling spotted him and skirted the dance floor. As he got closer, he saw that the manager was flanked by two large men in black suits holding fully automatic AK-47s. Subtlety wasn’t in the Russian vocabulary, he thought as he closed the gap and looked up at the manager, a thin man with a beaked nose and a forehead that sloped back into baldness. The two bouncers eyed Pauling, then one nudged the manager, who looked down.

“Misha Glinskaya,” Pauling shouted over the music’s din.

The manager frowned and narrowed his already narrow eyes.

“Glinskaya,” Pauling repeated, louder this time and hoping he had the pronunciation of the mafioso’s name right. “He’s waiting for me.”

The manager leaned close to one of the bouncers and said something into his ear. The heavyset man with the automatic weapon came down off the platform and motioned with his head for Pauling to follow. The bouncer didn’t bother trying to avoid the dancers. They gave him wide berth as he walked through them, Pauling close behind, until reaching a door manned by another AK-47-toting man, who stepped aside and allowed the bouncer to open it. Beyond the door was a large room with concrete-block walls, a high ceiling with black metal industrial beams, and no windows. Two men played pool; six others sat at a table playing cards. What Pauling especially noticed was the relative silence of the room compared with the clangorous pandemonium outside.

His eyes went to a couch on his left, along the wall. Seated on it was a young Russian man wearing a double-breasted white jacket, black slacks, a teal silk shirt with the top buttons undone, and black alligator loafers. Pauling noted he wasn’t wearing socks, like a trendy Beverly Hills or East Hampton yuppie. The man smiled and motioned for Pauling to join him.

“Pauling?” he said.

“
Da.
You’re Glinskaya?”

“Yes. Speak English, huh? I speak good English.”

“Fine.” Pauling took in the other men in the room. “Can we go somewhere a little more private?” he asked.

“We are fine here. My friend tells me you are seeking information.”

“Your friend would be the banker, Miziyano.”

“It is not important who my friend is. He tells me you are interested in buying some missiles.”

Pauling was taken aback for a moment, both because he hadn’t expected to be identified as a weapons buyer, and because the young Russian had said
missiles
as though he were talking about shoes or tennis racquets.

“He is wrong?”

“Maybe not. Actually, I’m interested in finding out about someone else who might have bought some missiles from you a while ago.”

As Glinskaya laughed, Pauling saw that the Russian had a false eye that never moved. “I am not in the business of selling missiles, Mr. Pauling. You have been given false information.”

“Then maybe you know somebody who might have sold missiles to this friend of mine.”

“I might. Would you care for a drink? Vodka?”

“No. Look, I don’t have much time to play word games, Mr. Glinskaya, and I don’t care whether you sell missiles or your mother does. I’m looking for information and I’m willing to pay for it.”

The Russian looked for a moment as though he might be offended at what Pauling said. But then he laughed and said, “Ah, the American way of doing business, aggressive—what is the term?—proactive, no time for a pleasant drink. It is not our way of doing business, Mr. Pauling.”

“Then we’ve both wasted our time,” Pauling said, standing and realizing two men from the card table had left the game and stood a few feet from either side of the couch. The bulges in their suits were not, Pauling knew, growths, although they were undoubtedly malignant.

“Your government is willing to pay a lot of money for the information, I am told.”

“Yes, a lot of money—for
good
information.”

Glinskaya calmly reached in the breast pocket of his jacket, pulled out a small slip of paper, and handed it to Pauling. At first, all Pauling saw were a series of numbers. But then the meaning of them became only too evident. There were two sets of numbers, one preceded by
Serial #
, the other by
Batch #—
the same numbers he’d been shown by Lerner designating the three missiles that had been used to down the American planes.

Pauling looked down at the mafioso and nodded.

“Two hundred thousand, U.S., huh?” Glinskaya said flatly.

Pauling nodded.

Glinskaya stood and slicked back dirty-blond hair on his temples. “Now, we will have a drink together and discuss how and when you will be able to meet with my friend. Come. I become—what do you say?—agitated when my hospitality is refused.”