Time on the Wire (22 page)
Authors: Jay Giles
At 8:10 a.m., Matt Shuloff left the Best Western where he’d spent the night, walked the three blocks to the Bureau. Shuloff was wearing a dark gray suit, heavily starched white shirt, striped blue and white tie, highly-polished wingtips. In his left hand he carried a black leather attaché.
At age 47, Shuloff was fit, trim. He had a round face, dark eyes, hook nose, thin lips. He wore his brown hair in a close crew cut.Normally there was a spring in his step. Not today. Three weeks of trial prep, four days on the stand, O’Neill’s constant badgering to hurry up and get to Sarasota had taken their toll.
Far be it for him to question a Deputy Director, but if O’Neill needed someone in Sarasota a week ago, he should have selected someone else.
His cell vibrated. He pulled it off his belt holster, looked at the ID. The devil himself. “Yes, sir.”
“Matt, I’ve been called to an off-site. After you’ve talked to Casper, call me on my cell and we’ll discuss an action plan for the Beck/Lohse matters.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What time will you be debriefing Casper?”
“I’m not certain yet, sir. But I do understand your sense of urgency.”
“Good. Be waiting to hear from you.”
He re-holstered his cell, stepped into the Bureau’s lobby. An hour later, ensconced in Casper’s former office, Shuloff had him on the phone. “Deputy Director O’Neill asked me to meet with you. What time could you come in?”
“Ten? How’s that?”
“Good. Appreciate your willingness to come in so quickly.”
“Sure,” Casper said before he rang off.
• • •
Casper cradled the phone receiver. Maybe O’Neill was going to help him after all. He changed clothes, got ready. Promptly at 10:00, he walked into the Bureau’s lobby for the first time since his surgery.
“Good to see you back, Agent Casper,” the smiling receptionist told him. To the man who would escort him, she said, “Bobby, Conference Room ‘B’, please.”
Casper frowned at the mention of ‘B’. It had a wall of windows and would subject him to sunlight. Suck it up, he told himself.
Shuloff was waiting for him in the hallway, a thick file in his left hand. The two men shook hands, sized each other up. “Good to meet you,” Shuloff said easily. “Coffee is on the way,” he added as they entered the conference room.
Casper wanted to sit away from the window, but saw a laptop, pile of papers there. Annoyed, knowing he’d burn, he sat on the window side.
Shuloff shut the door, sat in front of the pile of papers, mouthed pleasantries until the coffee arrived, then got right to it. “Tell me about your heart procedure.”
Casper gave him the whole sorry tale.
When he was finished, Shuloff said, “I’m going to need doctor’s names and phone numbers.”
Casper dug out his Blackberry, read them off, watched Shuloff write them on a sheet of paper.
Shuloff stood, piece of paper in hand. “Be right back.” He was gone for five minutes, returned without the paper. He took his seat, opened the two file folders, organized some papers. “Start at the beginning. Tell me about the Beck/Lohse matters.”
Casper detailed everything he knew.
“Weren’t you concerned about missing that press conference?” Shuloff wanted to know.
Casper’s big chin quivered. “Trust me, when you’re facing heart surgery, you don’t worry about a press conference.”
Shuloff’s cell rang. He answered it, listened for a long time. Said, “Thanks,” clicked it off, reholstered it on his belt. “Listen,” he said to Casper , “I need to step out again. Might be a while. Can we get you anything?”
Casper shook his head. “I’m fine.”
• • •
Don O’Neill was in a coordination meeting. Around the large conference table at the facility in Northern Virginia were representatives of Homeland Security, NIA, CIA, and the Pentagon. The issue on the table was the vulnerability of the Alaskan oil pipeline to terrorist attack.
O’Neill felt a vibration in his suit’s right jacket pocket. He pulled out his cell, held it under the table to look at the ID. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I have to take this call.” He stood, left the room, found a secluded area in the hall. “Yes.”
“Agent Shuloff, sir. Wanted to report that I’ve met with Agent Casper, went over the chronology of his absence from the Bureau, had people talk with his doctors. Bottom line, sir, his story checks out. His cardiologist remembered him saying he had to get back to the office, that he couldn’t be admitted to the hospital. Doctor said he couldn’t let Casper leave. If he had, Casper would have pitched over dead.”
O’Neill processed what he’d heard. “Then th—”
“Excuse me, sir. There is one new development you should be aware of. I had a voice mail from Agent Chance, saying that she’d identified Dieter Albrecht of Daimler AG as the insider and that she’d tracked Albrecht to Mexico.”
“Get a team on that, immediately.”
“Agent Chance already left, sir. She also believes the woman who killed Beck and Lohse is headed to Mexico.”
O’Neill had a vague sense of Chance as an inexperienced agent. “So she’s been responsible for the progress on these matters?”
“It appears so, sir.”
“And she went to Mexico by herself?”
“I believe so, sir. The voicemail references a brief she put together for me on these matters, but I haven’t seen it, yet.”
“When you find it, forward a copy on to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is Casper still there?”
“Yes, sir. He’s waiting in a conference room.”
“Excellent,” O’Neil said and smiled. An idea had come to him. “Here’s what I want to do.”
Albrecht woke early that morning, got out of bed quietly so as not to disturb Monique. He’d discovered, in their short time together, she liked to sleep in. Albrecht put on a robe, walked barefoot down the curved stairway to the main hall, then to the kitchen.
Mae, the cook, had already made coffee. Albrecht poured himself a cup, picked up the Financial Times off the kitchen counter, carried coffee and newspaper out to his favorite spot on the terrace.
The house had been sited on a cliff. The stone terrace, which spanned the back of the house, extended from the house to the cliff’s edge. A three-foot high stone wall marked the edge, beyond that, the cliff fell a hundred feet to the sea.
From his chair by the wall, Albrecht could see a vast expanse of water, hear the waves crashing on the rocks below, feel the ocean breeze. It wasn’t his beloved sailing. Still, there were moments where it seemed as if he was at sea. He savored that feeling now, as he sipped his coffee, studied the ups and downs of the market, knowing he had roughly $35-million to invest.
He’d have had more but Monique had spared no expense on the house. She’d heard about it at her plastic surgeon’s office in L.A., leased it for a year, gotten carried away with redecorating, turning the house into a McMansion.
Quite a feat considering Monique had had no money. She’d negotiated the lease, made her purchases, had work performed, all on a promise to pay when an inheritance arrived. What little money she’d had, she’d spent on bribes to the building inspector, employment agency, and most importantly, local police. Now, the police functioned as their private security force. Anyone who threatened them, would be taken into police custody or disappear.
Albrecht believed he had covered their tracks exceedingly well. But if someone were to track him to this place, he hoped it would happen quickly, so it could be dealt with and put behind him.
The police captain had assured him he personally would put a bullet behind the ear of any intruder and feed the remains to the coyotes.
Marike’s flight landed in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico at 5:15 p.m. local time. She collected her bags, breezed through customs, hailed a cab, had it take her to the Buenaventura Hotel and Beach Club.
She registered, followed the bellman to an upper-floor room with a view of the ocean. He placed her bags on the bed, accepted his tip, smiled appreciatively, left.
Marike surveyed her room, found it adequate. She’d requested a chilled bottle of champagne be waiting for her. She found it, pulled the bottle up by the neck, examined the label. Local. She popped the cork, poured a taste into a cheap flute, founded it to be quite dry, flavorful. She filled her glass, set about the task of unpacking.
Tomorrow, she would set about the task of tracking.
• • •
Hanna and Miles landed in Puerto Vallarta at 8:20 that evening. They made their way to the baggage area where Miles collected his duffel, Hanna’s suitcase. For the walk to customs, he slung the duffel’s shoulder strap over his neck, let the duffle ride comfortably against his right hip, pulled Hanna’s suitcase along with his left hand.
Hanna showed her badge to the customs officer and they passed right through.
In twenty minutes, their cab deposited them at the Fiesta Americana where Hanna had booked two rooms.
Miles gaze took in the elaborate open air lobby with a tall cathedral ceiling, elaborate carved wood detailing, tile floors, tropical plants. He wasn’t used to such luxury. Usually, he camped or stayed in hostels. “Impressive,” he said to Hanna while they waited in line to check in.
“The travel department recommended it,” Hanna said over her shoulder.
The couple in front of her finished. Hanna and Miles stepped up to the counter. Hanna took charge, putting the rooms on a FBI credit card. The desk clerk, Maria, a young dark-haired, dark-eyed girl wearing a dark-blue suit, handed each of them a keycard, gave them directions to the elevators.
After they’d dropped off things in their rooms, Miles and Hanna met for dinner at the Fiesta Americana’s open-air restaurant.
“So what’s our plan of attack?” Miles asked after they were settled at one of the tables overlooking the pool area.
“Professional courtesy says the first thing we do is let the police know we’re here trying to locate Albrecht. They may help.”
“Think so?”
“Hope so. That’s usually how it works when we contact the local authorities. Of course, that’s back in the states. I have no idea how the Mexican authorities will respond.”
“Then what?” Miles asked as their waiter, in white shirt, black pants, pattered cummerbund, and large sombrero, arrived, handed them oversize menus. “For you, from the bar?” He asked and adjusted the napkin draped over his forearm.
“Just water for me,” Hanna said.
“Dos Equis.”
“Coming right up,” he assured them.
Hanna leaned forward. “Remember that photo of Albrecht I had downloaded?”
“Sort of,” Miles said over the top of his menu.
“We start showing it to hotel staff, restaurant people. Albrecht has been here a month. Somebody has to recognize his photo, give us something to go on. Then it’s putting in the time, doing the investigative work to track him down.”
Their waiter returned, served Hanna’s water, Miles’ beer.
Miles took a sip. “So let’s say we find Albrecht. How does that work? Do you arrest him? Do you turn him over to the Mexican police?”
“We don’t want to arrest Albrecht right away,” she explained. “We’ll put him under surveillance, wait and see if Silber shows up.
My biggest concern is that she’s already been here, that we may be too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“Too late to find Albrecht alive.”
Marike, dressed in a black halter top, white Capri pants, beige strappy sandals, had breakfast at the hotel’s open-air restaurant overlooking the beach. Still concerned about her weight, she had half a grapefruit, juice, half a plain bagel, single cup of coffee. She signed the bill to her room, had the concierge in the lobby call a taxi to take her to the address for PV Sailboat Charter.
It turned out to be a small white clapboard building adjacent to the Marina. Marike climbed the three steps to the front porch, where faded pictures of sailboats were tacked to the walls, entered the open front door.
Inside, behind a wooden counter in the rear of the room, a well-groomed young Mexican in a white golf shirt bearing a gold PV Sailboat Charter logo, greeted her in Spanish.
She took Albrecht’s cancelled check and a crisp, new hundred-dollar bill from her purse, placed them on the counter, said in English: “It’s urgent I find this man as soon as possible.” She tapped the bill with a well-manicured fingernail, “Locating him may be difficult. This is for your trouble.”
The gaze of the man, identified by his name tag as Miguel, shifted from Marike to the bill, back to Marike. “You are most generous, señorita.” The smile on his lips offset the distrust in his eyes. “I am afraid I don’t know enough to earn your money. The man you seek turned in his boat several days ago. I have no idea where he is now.”
Marike took a second hundred-dollar bill from her purse, placed it on top of the first one. “Can you help me find him? I’ll pay you three hundred dollars more if you can help me locate him.”
The man’s brow furrowed. “Why is it you wish to find this man?”
“I have come all the way from Germany,” Marike said without hesitation, “to plead with him to reconcile with his son. They have not spoken because of me, I have come to make it right.”
The man’s eyes were skeptical, but he didn’t challenge her. He took the two-hundred dollars, put it in his pant’s pocket. “Come back in one hour. I make no promises, but I may have something for you.”
Marike thanked him, took Albrecht’s cancelled check, put it back in her purse, left. She strolled to a small outdoor café half-a-block down, picked a table that gave her a view of PV Sailboat Charters, ordered a bottle of sparkling water, prepared to pass the time.
Marike wasn’t so naive she thought young Miguel would sell out a good customer for five hundred dollars. The smarter play would be to contact Albrecht, say someone was asking for him, see what it would be worth to him to send that person in the wrong direction.
His response, an hour later when she returned to the office, didn’t disappoint. “Señorita, I have made a number of phone calls,” he told her, eying the three-hundred dollars she had placed on the counter in front of him, “and I have information for you. I have talked with people who know Señor Albrecht and they tell me he has gone to Cancun.”
“Cancun? Why would he go to Cancun?”
He forced a smile. “The sailing, I’m sure.”
“Did you recommend a charter company there to him?”
“Me, señorita? No, I did not.”
Marika was sure he was lying.