Текст книги "The Bricklayer "

Автор книги: Noah Boyd

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 21 страниц) [доступный отрывок для чтения: 8 страниц]

THREE

ROBERT LASKER KNEW THAT IN WASHINGTON, D.C., THE QUICKEST way to have one’s public-service résumé reduced to a one-line obituary was to get caught lying to the White House, especially if that individual happened to be the director of the FBI. But that was what he had just done. Anyway, he wasn’t sure what the truth was, or whether he cared if, as director of the FBI, he ever found out. He told his driver that he needed to clear his head and would walk back to the office.

Pushing his hands deeper into his pockets as he walked along, he tried not to think about the meeting with the White House staffer who had summoned him because of the press the Bureau had been receiving about the Rubaco Pentad murders. “After three murders of well-known people, silence is not an option with the media. It looks like you’re hiding something. You have to make some sort of statement,” the staffer had said.

Actually, they were hiding something, not only from the public, and now the White House, but from most of their own agents as well. Lasker, without giving any details, told him that the investigation was at a critical juncture and the smallest miscalculation could cause additional deaths. The fear of the administration being dragged into the circle of responsibility for more murders was enough for the aide to back off, at least for the time being.

In truth, the FBI had not developed a single lead as to who was responsible for the murders or how to stop the killers from striking again.

Twelve hours earlier, the Rubaco Pentad had claimed its third high-profile victim, Arthur Bellington, a nationally known defense attorney who took particular delight in preventing or overturning FBI convictions, which he often followed with a press conference detailing the Bureau’s ineptitude.

A month earlier, a former reporter had been murdered in her L.A. home. Within a couple of days, a million-dollar extortion demand was mailed to the FBI. When Agent Daniel West tried to deliver a dummy package of money to catch them, he too was shot to death. The Bureau had covered up the death, reporting it as a training accident, because of the Pentad’s demand for secrecy concerning all monetary aspects of the case.

A couple of weeks later, Nelson Lansing, a Utah state senator who had coauthored a book about Ruby Ridge concluding that the Bureau had methodically executed members of the Randy Weaver family, had been shot and killed by the Pentad as he was leaving his Salt Lake City home early in the morning. To no great surprise, a two-million-dollar demand arrived at the FBI within a week. What followed then was anything but predictable. The letter also named the agent who was to make the delivery, Stanley Bertok of the Los Angeles division.

As instructed, Bertok, this time with the entire two million dollars, flew to Phoenix, rented a car, and took off on a four-hour drive to Las Vegas. The Pentad had warned about using FBI aircraft, which, like so many things in this case, indicated an uncommon understanding of Bureau procedure. The prescribed route was desolate and relatively free of commercial airline traffic so any plane would be spotted easily. Also, the terrain was flat and the roads were straight. Any trailing vehicle could be seen for miles. So the Bureau left it up to electronics, hiding GPS devices in the car and in the bag containing the money. Bertok was also given a cell phone with additional Global Positioning System abilities. Two and a half hours into the trip, the car, according to all three GPSs, stopped dead. Fearing discovery, the agents monitoring Bertok’s movements waited almost another hour before closing in. When they arrived at the indicated location, the only thing they found was a fast-food bag on the shoulder of the road. Inside were the two GPS devices along with the cell phone. Bertok, the car, and the bag containing two million dollars were nowhere to be found. Twelve hours later, the rented vehicle was found at the Las Vegas airport.

Lasker continued his way back to the Hoover Building, forcing himself to walk slower. The weather was perfect and he took a moment to watch a couple of attractive young women pass him.

With the Pentad claiming its fourth victim the night before, it seemed improbable that the missing two million dollars was in their possession. If they didn’t have it, the most plausible explanation was that Stan Bertok had just become America’s newest millionaire. And that meant the FBI would soon receive another demand for money to prevent a fifth killing.

If an agent selling out wasn’t bad enough, an even worse possibility existed. Just hours before, the lab had confirmed that all four victims, including Dan West, had been shot with the same weapon, a .40-caliber Glock, model 22. That particular gun was FBI issue and was part of Bertok’s property. Coupled with the possibility of “insider info” with which the group operated, the thought had crossed more than a few minds that Bertok himself might have committed the murders to set up the extortion drop.

Involuntarily, Lasker shook his head at the ingenuity of the Pentad. Everything it did was carefully designed to defeat the FBI, especially its choice of victims. Not only were they high-profile individuals, their deaths instantly gaining national attention, but their murders took place in California, Utah, and Pittsburgh, implying that no one was safe anywhere. And maybe most important, each of the victims was known to have a conflicted history with the FBI, making the Bureau waste time either defending itself or planning circuitous avenues of investigation to avoid the appearance of any “further” impropriety. With the public not knowing why the victims were really being murdered, the confusion continued as to who was actually killing the “enemies of the FBI,” as the media were now referring to them.

Most puzzling was how difficult the Pentad made it to deliver the money. It almost seemed that they wanted the FBI to fail; in fact, that was exactly what one of the Bureau profilers theorized. “Their primary motive,” he said, “is to disgrace the FBI. It is such an obsession with them that they consider murder nothing more than a necessary tool. They may not even want the money. Some people find self-validation in destroying institutions. They find power in destroying power. It’s being done every day through lawsuits. But legal channels wouldn’t produce the dramatic damage they feel they have a right to. And even though their methods would be considered by most as cowardly, they see themselves as great unsung heroes, defeating, in this case, an institution that the American people mistakenly see as heroic. The more times they can defeat it, the more heroic they are. And the more foolish we look. Do they want the money? Eventually they probably will. Greed is pretty dependable. But they’re not going to be in any hurry to get it as long as they’re beating us in these skirmishes. Waco and Ruby Ridge are apparently the justification of their actions. No one from the FBI was ever punished for those incidents, so they are taking retribution into their own hands. If Bertok did suddenly become a thief and take the money, they couldn’t have hoped for anything better. It proves their point that the FBI is really corrupt and can’t be trusted. And at some point they will reveal to the world that he took it. Again, to humiliate us. Not only do we have a dishonest agent, but we routinely cover up something like this. Which at the moment we are.”

Lasker knew that whoever was pulling the strings, whether it was the Pentad or Agent Bertok freelancing—or both—the effect was paralyzing the Bureau’s ability to go after them. That the FBI might be assassinating its enemies and blaming the killings on a fictitious group of terrorists was a ridiculous notion, but if the information about the Glock 22, the gun the Bureau had issued Bertok, became public, it might not seem so far-fetched.

At each of the crime scenes, a folded piece of paper with the same two words, “Rubaco Pentad,” had been left on the victim’s chest. Since “pentad” is defined as a group of five, the press felt safe in concluding that some sort of small domestic terrorism cell was committing the murders. And “Rubaco,” they decided, was an amalgam of Ruby Ridge and Waco, two of the FBI’s most enduring black eyes, especially among the more radical antigovernment groups, most of which would list the FBI as first-strike targets.

Seeking to further sensationalize the case, the press drew a more abstract but marketable conclusion: that each of the three known victims, because of his or her individual history with the Bureau, could be considered an enemy of the FBI. However, the two assumptions collectively formed a paradox. If the Rubaco Pentad were committing murders to save the world from the FBI, then why was it killing individuals who shared the same beliefs?

Because of the monetary demand, Lasker had initially assumed it was just another extortion with a different coat of paint, and it had been handled as such. Terrorists who demanded money were simply extortionists no matter what kind of rhetoric accompanied their demands. But after they left the hundred-dollar bills lying around Dan West’s body, their long-range plans for the money suddenly seemed a more ominous possibility. If they were legitimate terrorists, there would be, as they had warned in their first demand letter, an irresistible irony to the idea of using secretly paid FBI money to commit mass murder, something for which the public would never forgive the Bureau.

FOUR

NEWLY PROMOTED DEPUTY ASSISTANT DIRECTOR KATE BANNON HAD never been in the FBI director’s office before. While she and her boss waited for Bob Lasker’s return, she took the opportunity to survey the room more closely. The lack of pretension in the decor was surprising. She didn’t know what she had expected, but the offices of upper management she had seen usually looked more like small museums, lined with trophies, plaques, and photographs. Instead there were piles of documents littering the room, on tables and shelves, some of the taller ones leaning haphazardly. A few were starting to show a coat of dust, causing a dull mustiness that scratched at her nostrils. Only one photograph hung on the wall. It had apparently been taken during Lasker’s Senate confirmation hearing. Shot from behind the soon-to-be director, it focused on the face of a bald senator whose scalp glistened with sweat and who for some reason was shaking an angry finger at the nominee. She smiled, suspecting that it had been placed directly behind the director’s desk to remind everyone that whatever business had brought them there, he or she should remember that ultimately Lasker had to answer for what his agency did or failed to do.

The door opened and the director walked in. “You guys been waiting long?” He fell unceremoniously into the chair behind his desk, grinding his eyes with the heels of his hands until he felt the tiny optic shocks that told him that was enough. He had gotten little sleep since the murders started, and the command performance at the White House had taken out of him what little was left.

Assistant Director Don Kaulcrick was sitting next to Kate. At fifty-three, he was the FBI’s senior assistant director. He was tall with a disjointed thinness to his limbs. His hair had not started to turn gray yet and would have made his face look younger if it weren’t for its being slightly lopsided, the right side of the jaw just noticeably larger than the left. It gave the appearance of a permanent sneer of skepticism, one that continually left subordinates trying to convince him of their sincerity, an advantage he had learned to exploit early in his career. But Kaulcrick noticed that Kate Bannon seemed immune to it, probably because very little intimidated her. So he did the only thing he could to combat her lack of regard for the privileges of rank; he handpicked her to be his assistant. That way he could personally rein in that freewheeling style that had caused her to rise through the ranks so quickly. “Not long, sir,” he answered for both of them. “How’d it go?”

“Don, I was summoned to the White House,” Lasker said. “That’s like asking Marie Antoinette if the blade was nice and sharp. Kate, how are you?”

“Just fine, sir.”

“They’re not happy with us at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. I was told to stop screwing around and just go ahead and solve this thing. Thank God they’ve taken the gloves off—now we can start the real investigation. What a mess.” Kaulcrick and Kate glanced at each other furtively, trying to determine if he thought they were considered responsible. “Someone please give me some good news.”

After a few seconds, Kate said, “At the first three murder scenes, the killer or killers took the time to police up the casings. All we had were the slugs to identify the gun, but they got sloppy with this one last night. A forty-caliber cartridge was found near the body.”

“That’s it. That’s the extent of the good news?” Lasker said. “I know I’m not as up on this stuff as you are, but why would you pick up the casing when the slug in the body can identify the gun?” the director asked.

“Maybe they were hoping that the slug would be damaged enough that it couldn’t be identified. They used hollow points, which tend to deform a great deal more as they pass through the human body,” Kaulcrick offered.

“I suppose,” Lasker said. “What else?”

Kate said, “I’m not sure this is good news.” She hesitated. Lasker gave her an unenthusiastic wave of the hand to continue. “So far, the people I sent to Las Vegas haven’t been able to find any sign of Bertok having taken a flight out of there.”

Lasker looked at the woman that he had heard male agents refer to as “too good-looking to be a female agent.” She was tall with a figure that was both athletic and feminine. Her face would have had a blond, girl-next-door innocence to it if it weren’t for the soft two-inch scar across her left cheekbone, a broken line that suggested a willingness for combat. In the past, he had noticed a nonchalance to the way she handled herself in a room in which she was the only woman. Lasker took a moment to lose himself in her confidence and then said, “I don’t have to remind you how sensitive this is, Kate. I assume you’ve explained to everyone working this just how quiet it has to be kept.”

“Yes, sir, I chose the agents carefully.”

“All good investigators?”

“Not particularly. I went purely for obedience. As far as the investigation, I know what needs to be done, and I’m reading all reports to make sure it’s getting done. I just wanted agents who above all else could keep their mouths closed.”

“In today’s Bureau? Please tell me how to accomplish that.”

A corner of Kate’s mouth lifted sardonically. “I picked only the most serious climbers.” “Climbers” was a term street agents used to stereotype the most serious promotion seekers. “I told them if they did a good job, their name would be put on a priority list, but if this leaked out in any fashion, whether it was their doing or not, they’d seen their last promotion.”

Lasker smiled. “Sounds foolproof.” The director looked at Kaulcrick. “What else?”

He slid a report across Lasker’s desk. “This is the latest analysis of the recording from Dan West’s murder. The transcription is pretty much the same. That whispering voice the killer used makes it hard to distinguish. Like you suggested, the recording was played for Bertok’s supervisor in L.A. to see if he could identify the voice. All he would say was it might be him.”

The director turned to the transcription portion of the report. “And what about the language?”

Kate pulled out a different document. “Psycholinguistics said that a couple of phrases have definite overtones of someone familiar with FBI jargon, particularly ‘BU’ for Bureau and ‘surveillance’ instead of the more commonly used ‘backup.’ And due to the killer saying things like ‘you are young’ and ‘the old BU was tougher,’ the conversation has the subtlety of an older agent lecturing a younger one. But there’s not enough to draw any definitive conclusions about the identity of the killer.”

“So there’s nothing to say it isn’t Bertok.”

“Unfortunately, no,” Kaulcrick said.

“They seemed to know everything we tried to do at the New Hampshire drop. Does that take an insider’s knowledge?” the director asked.

Kate said, “Not necessarily. Dummy packages have been used in the past, and it has been made public in court testimony. From the outset, they probably planned to commit two murders because they knew it would be a dummy drop. That way they could demand two million. As a side benefit, they can now argue that our ineptness caused not only murder number two, but the death of an FBI agent. I don’t know, maybe Bertok was afraid that if he had tried to deliver the money, he would have wound up like Dan West, or worse. Maybe that helped him decide to take off. If he did,” she said.

“If it is him, it’s going to kill us when it comes out,” Lasker said. “But for right now, the longer we can delay it, the more operating room we’ll have.”

“We still have to find him. What makes it so difficult is that we’re looking for one of our own, and we can’t even tell our own,” Kaulcrick said. “Plus he knows all our procedures and has two million dollars to be creative with.”

Lasker took a moment to consider what Kaulcrick had said and then asked, “Are we getting any closer to identifying this group? Is this really a group?”

Kate said, “It’s been my experience that almost invariably extortionists who work alone will use plural pronouns like ‘we,’ ‘us,’ ‘our.’ It’s part of their intimidation process to make the victim believe that the extortionist has more manpower than he does.”

“So what you’re saying is that this could be just one man.”

“I’m saying it’s a possibility.”

“Is there any record of ‘pentad’ anywhere in our files?”

“Since the first murder, we have been running ‘Rubaco’ and ‘pentad’ every way possible,” Kaulcrick said. “So far, nothing.”

Kate said, “We’ve got a half dozen agents going through all the Waco and Ruby Ridge nut files. There’s a few leads being generated, but nothing with much promise.”

“For the moment, let’s assume Bertok is not involved in the killings. Anyone have any theories why they picked him?”

Kate said, “He was a street agent who worked extortion cases. Maybe they ran into him somewhere or read his name in the paper. It might be another one of their ploys to make us think they know more about what we’re doing than we do.”

The director snorted a laugh. “So far it’s working.”

Kaulcrick said, “This could have been Bertok’s operation from the beginning. With him and the money disappearing together, it would be shortsighted not to consider the possibility.”

“If it is Bertok, why would he use a gun that is so recognizable as FBI issue?” Kate asked her boss.

“Nothing would cover his tracks better if he’s caught and has to go to trial. He could then say, ‘With a plan this well thought out, would I be stupid enough to use an FBI-type service weapon? Somebody wants you to think it’s an agent who has done this.’ If we’re having these doubts, a jury certainly would. And then, at just the right moment, he would stand up and surrender his service weapon. ‘Here’s my issued handgun—check the serial number and test-fire it.’ It would destroy the prosecution’s case. Then he would only be looking at prison time for the embezzlement of two million dollars, which, with any reimbursement, carries a slap on the wrist compared to four murders.”

“Assuming that’s true, then what did he shoot the victims with?” the director said.

“A second, unregistered Glock 22,” Kaulcrick answered quickly, as if he had expected the question.

“Do we know if he owns more than one gun?” the director asked.

“I checked his property card, and no, he doesn’t,” Kate said. “Not that he’s told the Bureau about.”

“I don’t know, Don. If he has the money, then why this last murder?” the director asked.

“Sir, if all this was part of a planned defense, another killing would be proof positive that he had nothing to do with the murders. He just boogied with the cash, so the real killers had no choice but to find another victim and make a new demand.”

The director collapsed back into his chair. “Anyone want my job?”

After a few seconds, Kaulcrick said, “I got something from the Chicago office this morning that might take your mind off this for a few minutes. May I?”

“Please.”

Kaulcrick went over to a large television that sat on a corner table of the office and inserted a DVD. “I don’t know if either of you saw this on the national news a couple of weeks ago.”

A reporter came on the screen, microphone in hand, and started describing a hostage situation taking place at a suburban Chicago bank. Suddenly, the camera zoomed in on the bank’s front door. A terrified woman opened it, and a gunman could be seen behind her shielding himself, his weapon pressed against the side of her head. The reporter said, “It looks like one of the gunmen is trying to negotiate some sort of deal.” Just as the robber finished his demands and closed the door, one of the bank’s front windows exploded as a man came crashing through it. He skidded across the sidewalk and lay unconscious.

The cameraman centered the shot on the body lying in front of the bank, and after another fifteen seconds, a second robber exploded through the adjoining window, landing on the concrete walk, dazed and unarmed. Immediately, customers and employees ran out of the front door as the police rushed forward to handcuff the two men. The screen went black.

“What happened?” Lasker asked.

“According to the report, witnesses said a customer, waiting until the two robbers were separated, disarmed them one at a time and then threw each of them through the windows.”

“Who was it?”

“That is the strangest part to the story. No one knows. Whoever it was exited with the other customers and disappeared into the crowd.”

“What?” the director said.

“The police and the media have been putting out pleas for him to call in, but so far nothing.”

“What would make someone walk away from something that extraordinary?”

“I have no idea,” Kaulcrick said. “Want to see how he did it?”

“Absolutely.”

“Chicago sent me the surveillance videos from inside the bank.” Kaulcrick shoved in another DVD. “This composite was put together from three different cameras. It starts with the first gunman being overpowered.” He hit the Play button and it showed the bank lobby with customers scattered facedown on the floor. “See this hand here?” He pointed at the corner of the screen. “That belongs to our boy. Keep an eye on it.”

“What’s that next to it?” Kate asked.

“A watercooler. Keep an eye on that, too.”

Kaulcrick pressed a button on the remote and the disk slowed to half speed. As the images rolled by, the hand on the floor reached up and took the bottle from the watercooler as its owner pulled himself from the floor. His grainy face came into view. He placed a hand on each end of the bottle, holding it in front of his chest just as the gunman realized he was up off the floor and turned toward him. The robber yelled something, but the man continued to move toward him, extending the bottle away from his chest and in line with the muzzle of the gun. The robber fired and the impact of the bullet ripped the bottle from the man’s hands. Almost simultaneously, the man grabbed the barrel of the gun and twisted it outward in a move that Kaulcrick and Kate recognized as one they had practiced dozens of times during defensive tactics training. Once he finished twisting the weapon from the robber’s hand, the robber swung at him, and the man used the gun to strike him in the head. Then, with relative ease, he hurled him through the glass window and immediately ran to the wall that separated the front door from the rest of the bank’s interior.

“This is from a second camera,” Kaulcrick said. The TV screen was filled with static for a second; then, from a different angle, the female hostage who had been held at the front door during the television report came around the corner, followed by the second gunman. The unknown man’s hand flashed forward and shoved his weapon against the robber’s neck. After a short hesitation, the bank robber dropped his gun, and when the man stooped to pick it up, he ran. But the man took a few quick steps and caught him immediately.

The robber struck him in the face to no effect. Before the robber could hit him again, the man punched him in the face, buckling his legs. Then the man turned and launched him through the second window. Looking up and realizing everything was being caught on camera, the man turned his head away and started herding the hostages out the door.

While the director nodded his head enthusiastically, Kate sat pensively. Noticing her lack of enthusiasm, he said, “Not impressed, Kate?”

She continued to look at the screen, which was again filled with static. “No, it’s not that….” She didn’t finish her thought.

Lasker asked, “How’d he know there was enough water in the bottle to stop a bullet?”

Kaulcrick said, “I’m guessing he didn’t.”

“Why would someone do something like that?”

“Apparently, he has a screw loose.”

“And they haven’t found out who he is yet?” Lasker said.

“No. Chicago wants to release this to the local media. That’s why they sent it to me, for authorization.”

“Let me know who he is when he’s identified. I’d be interested to know why he’s so camera shy.”

Kate said, “I think I know who he is.”

“You do?” The director turned toward her.

“Sir, you haven’t had the hand-to-hand training we have, but the way he took the gun from the first robber is an FBI move, one we have all practiced many times. That’s what tipped me off. His hair’s a little lighter now, but I think it’s a former agent named Steve Vail. I was a security supervisor in Detroit for two years, and Vail was assigned there. Not on my squad, on the fugitive squad. And I’m pretty sure he was originally from Chicago.”

“Former?”

“He was fired.”

“Not given the option to resign?”

“They gave him the choice, but he refused to respond even though he knew he would be fired.”

“So he could sue?”

Kate gave a quick, full-throated laugh. “I guess I’m not giving you a very clear picture of him. You’re trying to figure him out by the experiences you’ve had with others. No, he’s…probably the best word—the kindest word—is recalcitrant.”

“He’s a pain in the ass.”

“Beyond that. They used to say he bit off his nose to spite his face so many times that he actually learned to like the taste.”

“Then why was he fired? Apparently it wasn’t for a lack of courage.”

“He hated—no, that isn’t right—he simply didn’t recognize authority, at least not incompetent authority. That’s what was so strange about his firing. He could have prevented it by giving up a thoroughly disliked assistant special agent in charge. It all started when a Detroit police officer was shot and killed in the line of duty. They didn’t have any idea who had done it. Vail always had great informants, so he goes off on his own to contact them. At the same time, he’s poking around the murder investigation, developing new sources. He finds this one local who, after a little, let’s say, cajoling, names the shooter and also tells Vail that the gun used is at the killer’s residence. Which was kind of a feat in itself because it turns out the informant was the killer’s cousin. At the same time, because killing a police officer is a federal offense, the Bureau offers a twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward. Even though he would not have given up his cousin without Vail getting it out of him first, the informant decides that he might as well cash in and calls the same information into the FBI tip line. One of the ASACs at the time was Kent Wilson. Do you know him?”

“By reputation.”

“Then you won’t have any trouble believing what comes next. With the tip, Wilson has the same information as Vail—because of Vail’s work on the street. Vail was always that guy you called when you needed to get something done in spite of the rules. All full of himself, Wilson has Vail come in and reads him the tip sheet. Then tells him to do whatever is necessary to get probable cause for a search warrant at the killer’s residence. Vail leaves without saying a word. He already had everything in motion.

“Because the informant had no track record, his credibility for a search warrant wouldn’t have been strong enough, so Vail calls one of his most documented sources and has him listen while he telephones the cousin and has him repeat the information. Then Vail has his old informant repeat it to him for probable cause on the search warrant. The Detroit police find the gun, get a confession and eventually a conviction.

“Wilson tries to take credit for the arrest, but the brass at the Detroit PD goes nuts because Vail had also been keeping them up to speed all along, since it was their officer. He didn’t tell them about the sleight of hand with the sources. They call a press conference and give all the credit to Vail.

“The most amazing part is Wilson thinks it was all Vail’s doing and calls in the Office of Professional Responsibility, telling them that Vail falsified information to obtain a search warrant. He gives absolutely no thought about how it could come back and collapse on him. Subsequently, Vail refused to talk to OPR.

“Because of the inconsistencies in Wilson’s statement, they tell Vail what they suspected happened and even that Wilson had given him up. Still Vail won’t answer their questions. Not even after they offered him a walk if he flipped on Wilson would he say anything. They even went to the trouble of tracking down Vail’s old informant and threatened him, even tried to bribe him, but he wouldn’t give up Vail.”

“That’s unbelievable. Why wouldn’t Vail just give Wilson up? He’s not exactly the kind of boss you’d waste loyalty on.”

Kate leaned back. “Vail’s not that easy to figure out, but there is one very practical reason. If he admitted manufacturing probable cause, OPR would have had to notify the state prosecutor’s office, and the search, confession, and conviction would have been thrown out.”