Ballots and Blood Page 7

  In truth, there was no “list,” just a series of digital fingerprints: computer records, e-mails, phone records, credit card transactions, and wire transfers. Mahoney and an army of agents pored through them in the hope the clients might hold the clue to the Miller’s killer, or killers. All they turned up were the usual hedge-fund high flyers, traveling businessmen, preachers, rabbis, and politicians.

  That was why Mahoney nearly came out of his chair when he got the call about a client from one of his investigators.

  “What have you got?” Mahoney asked. It was his normal conversation starter.

  “I don’t know exactly yet, but it looks promising,” said the investigators. “We ran one of the cell phone numbers from the incoming calls through our databases. It belongs to a Saudi Arabian national living in Towson, Maryland.”

  “What about an e-mail account?” Mahoney pressed. “We need more for probable cause.”

  “Got it. This guy visited the Web site of the service and searched around. We traced the cookie to his Gmail account.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Hassan Qatani. Single male, twenty-six years old. Here’s the best part: he turned up on a watch list of individuals with known ties to Islamic extremist groups. His passport records indicate he spent time in Pakistan two years ago.”

  “Say no more,” said Mahoney.

  “He fits the profile. Highly educated, comes from a prominent family, his father was an influential banker close to the Saudi royal family. He came to the U.S. six years ago to go to business school and stayed. We can’t tell right now what he’s doing for employment.”

  “We know he was a client?”

  “Yes,” said the investigator. “Always paid cash.”

  “How long?”

  “Six weeks.”

  “Does anybody remember him?”

  “That’s where it really gets interesting. He was a client of Amber Abica’s. Saw her every week for five weeks, always on the same day as Miller. The day Miller died, he missed his scheduled appointment.”

  “Get a surveillance team over to his residence in Maryland,” directed Mahoney, his adrenal glands opening. “Watch his movements. See where he goes and who he sees. Be ready to move in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you think it’s just a coincidence, or do you smell a rat?”

  “Don’t know yet,” said the investigator. “We need to pick him up and find out known associates, where his money came from, review phone and e-mail records. If there’s something tying him to Miller, it’ll turn up.”

  “Yeah, well, a guy with no known source of income who drops $2,500 to get spanked had to be up to something.”

  “No question. If there’s something there, we’ll find it.”

  “Do it fast.”

  Mahoney hung up and rubbed his chin, his fingers scratching his beard, deep in thought. The suits at the Bureau were asking lots of questions about the investigation. Colleagues averted their eyes when they passed in the hall. People didn’t like it when the FBI became the issue, and Mahoney’s investigation was putting the Bureau in the crosshairs. As was usually the case, good police work might save the day. Mahoney sure hoped so. Because if this lead didn’t go somewhere, he might be forced to shut it down.

  Impulsively, he picked up the phone and dialed the number of Bing Williams, deputy director of the FBI, the number two person in the Bureau. He answered on the second ring.

  “Bing, it’s Pat. We may have a development in the Miller investigation.”

  “Talk to me,” said Williams.

  “We traced an e-mail account and cell phone from the client list to a Saudi national living in a rental home in Towson, Maryland. He’s got known ties to Islamic radical organizations and suspected terrorist connections. He spent time in Pakistan.”

  “Okay. What does that have to do with the price of eggs in China?” asked Williams.

  “He always paid cash, saw the same girl as Miller, didn’t show up for his last scheduled appointment the day Miller was killed.”

  “Can you place him at the scene?”

  “Not yet. We’re pulling the video from all the cameras in and around the Georgetown apartment and doing a facial recognition search now.”

  “Let me conference in Art Morris at Justice,” said Williams. Morris was deputy attorney general and ran DOJ on a day-to-day basis. Williams briefly placed Mahoney on hold, then came back on the line. “Pat, I’ve got Art Morris on the line. Tell him what you just told me.”

  “Hello, Mr. Morris, Pat Mahoney with the FBI. I’m leading the investigation into the murder of Senator—”

  “I know who you are, Agent. What have you got? This better be good,” said Morris. “I’m getting a lot of push back on this investigation.”

  “Our team just traced a cell phone number to a Saudi national with known ties to extremist groups who was a client of the woman Senator Miller patronized. He failed to show up for his last appointment. He hasn’t been heard from since.”

  “I hope you’ve got more than that. Don’t you think any man who frequented the service headed for the exits once a senator’s body turned up in the basement?” asked Morris.

  “Of course. But this is a questionable character who shows up out of nowhere, no known source of income, no job that we know of, and he’s paying $500 a week for an appointment and going in right before or right after Miller every time. Where’s he getting the money?”

  “What do you want, Pat?” asked Williams.

  “Full surveillance team to track this guy, total interagency cooperation, a complete data dump of every digital footprint he’s left on the planet in the last six months, search warrant of his residence, and the backing of the AG. We need to flood the zone.”

  “Bing, what do you think?” asked Morris.

  Williams paused, thinking as he tapped the keyboard on his computer. “He may be a one off, he may be tied into el Zafarshan, he may have had nothing to do with it. But even if he didn’t, we ought to err on the side of caution. I’d say do it.”

  “Alright, you’ve got our full backing,” said Morris, his voice clipped. “I’ll alert the attorney general, and we’ll give a heads-up to Charlie Hector at the White House. If this guy was involved, I don’t want the president hearing about it on the evening news.”

  “Thanks. We’ll report back on a real-time basis,” said Mahoney.

  “You do that, Agent,” replied Morris. “Don’t let him get away.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mahoney hung up and grabbed his coat, flying out the door and calling out to his deputy as he headed for the elevator. His deputy hustled to his side.

  “Alright, listen up,” said Mahoney. “I need a full surveillance team on Hassan Qatani, multiple vehicles, scramble a chopper if you have to. I need to know every Web site he’s visited, every phone call he’s made, every credit or debit card transaction he’s made in the past six months. I want a complete list of known associates. And we need a search warrant for his rental house and vehicle.”

  The deputy walked beside him, taking notes. “We’ll do.”

  “And get your hands on all the video from street cameras within a six-block radius of the Georgetown apartment. If you need a subpoena, get one.”

  He stepped onto the elevator.

  “Where are you going to be?”

  “The Justice Department. If this thing goes down, that’s where the action will be.”

  “Should I call anybody and let them know you’re coming?”

  Mahoney smiled. “They’ll know soon enough.” The doors to the elevator closed and Mahoney was gone.

  THE PRESIDENT’S ASSISTANT USHERED VICE President Whitehead into the Oval Office for his weekly lunch with the president, her pleated skirt billowing as she walked. Long stood in front of his desk, the silvery streaks in his brown hair more prominent than when he took office, standing erect in a tailored dark brown suit with a deep red Ferragamo tie, ostrich cowboy boots polished to a brilliant
shine. The man has gradually become president before my very eyes, thought Whitehead.

  “Johnny, my main man! What’s the word?” asked Long. He was a sponge, always absorbing information, sucking people dry, searching for gossip, the more salacious the better.

  “Fighting the good fight, Mr. President,” said Whitehead. “Trying to keep Sal Stanley from destroying the country.”

  “That’s a big job,” chuckled Long. They walked into the small dining room off the Oval and sat down. A waiter poured an iced tea for Long, sparkling water for Whitehead. He laid down china salad plates containing Caesar salad. The president picked up his napkin and popped it open with a snap of his wrist, laying it across his lap. Whitehead let the waiter lay his napkin on his lap. The president tore into his salad, talking as he chewed.

  “What are you hearing on the Miller vacancy?”

  “Radio silence,” said Whitehead. “Birch is holding his cards close to his vest.”

  “He’s a snake,” said Long, grimacing. “I called him to make nice and express my condolences after Miller’s death. The guy tells the press I was trying to get him to appoint himself to the U.S. Senate.” His eyes smoldered as he punctuated his words by jabbing the air with a salad fork. “That was a low-down, gutless, duplicitous thing to do.”

  “It’s all about the next election for him, Mr. President.”

  “You think so? He’s that much of a weasel?”

  “Oh, he’s running. As in right now.”

  “I think he was running when I offered him the Supreme Court seat.”

  “I think he was running when he was in high school.”

  Long laughed. Finished with his salad, he pushed the plate away. The waiter picked it up from the table and scraped the crumbs from the tablecloth with a metal scooper. “The guy has no core, no convictions. He’s an empty suit.”

  “Totally calculating,” agreed Whitehead. “Which in this case may coincidentally serve our interests as well. We need him to appoint a Republican who can hold the seat in November. That also happens to be in Birch’s interest as he gets ready to run for the GOP nomination for president.”

  “You’d think he’ll tack right to try to bring the social conservatives back into the Republican fold,” observed Long.

  “That’s what I would do. But I don’t think he can pull him away after the Diaz nomination.”

  “I agree. You know, these Senate appointments are complicated. They don’t always go the way you plan them.” Long paused as the waiter laid down the entrée, grilled salmon with sautéed asparagus. “Everyone who doesn’t get it becomes an enemy. If you pick an enemy, your friends are mad. If you pick a friend, everyone says you appointed a stooge.”

  Whitehead laid his napkin on the table, ignoring the entrée. “Mr. President, I had a couple of things I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Sure. Fire away, Johnny.”

  “The FBI came by here the other day and interviewed Truman Greenglass,” said Whitehead. “Asked all kinds of questions about covert aid to the Green Movement in Iran. Truman begged off, saying it was classified. But we’re between a rock and hard place because the counsel’s office has directed everyone to cooperate.”

  “Why would the FBI be asking about that?”

  “They’ve got a theory that Miller was murdered by the Zafarshan network, perhaps with Iranian funding.”

  Long’s eyes widened. “I thought he was accidentally strangled to death in some bondage game.” He shook his head. “Poor guy. I hate he went that way. What was he thinking?”

  “The FBI thinks Miller’s plan to include a military authorization trigger in the sanctions legislation might have made him a target for assassination.”

  “They think it was a terrorist operation?” asked Long.

  “Maybe.” Whitehead leaned forward. “The problem is if they keep turning over rocks, it will cripple our regime change covert ops in Iran. Between State and CIA, we’re putting hundreds of millions of dollars into pro-democracy groups, including the Green Movement. We’re doing technology transfers, military supplies, and black ops. If that becomes publicly known, it will destroy the credibility of the democracy activists and compromise sources and methods.”

  Long nodded.

  “Mr. President, we can’t let that happen. Let’s say Miller was killed by Iranian-funded terrorists. We still don’t want the Iranians to know that we know. If they murdered Miller, we can take care of that without it being publicly reported.”

  “If Zafarshan or the Iranians killed Miller, I’ll make them pay,” said Long, tapping the table with his index finger. “It’ll be an eye for an eye.”

  “No question. Of course, they may be trying to pay us back for some of the people we’re taking out in Iran.”

  “So be it,” said Long with a shrug. “They’ll find out they’re messing with the wrong guy in me, believe me. The main thing is we can’t have covert operations in Iran compromised.”

  “So how do we handle the FBI?”

  “Someone over there in a position of responsibility has to know what’s at stake. I certainly shouldn’t talk to Golden about it,” said Long. “Battaglia could.”

  “The problem is those two don’t get along.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Long, rolling his eyes. He thought a moment. “What about Jacobs? He could talk to the FBI.” Long referred to William Jacobs, director of the CIA.

  “Probably better if he talks to either Golden or, even better, Art Morris at DOJ. Let them handle it with an appropriate level of discretion. They’ve got career counterterrorism prosecutors over there.”

  “That’s far preferable to a communication from the White House.”

  “Big time. We don’t need a bunch of interrogatories from some Senate committee asking us who talked to whom at DOJ.”

  “Tell me about it. Stanley and the press would have a field day with that.”

  The waiter placed a slice of key lime pie with whipped cream, a lime garnish, and strawberries on the table in front of the two men.

  “What are you trying to do, kill me?” joked Long as the waiter smiled. “Don’t you know I’m trying to watch my weight?”

  “There’s one other thing, Mr. President,” said Whitehead. “I need to make you aware of it in the interest of full disclosure.”

  “Sure, Johnny. What is it?”

  “Well, sir, this is a bit embarrassing, but . . .” His voice trailed off. Long sat staring in anticipation, a bite of key lime pie suspended in midair on his fork. “I visited Adult Alternatives.” He averted his eyes from Long’s. “Not recently. It was a long time ago, five years ago. It was only a few times. I was going through a tough time and was sort of lost after I left the Senate. I guess it was a midlife crisis. I don’t even know if there’d be a record of it. Hopefully, there isn’t. I wanted you to know that so you didn’t think I was raising this issue to protect myself, because I’m not.”

  Long put the fork down on his plate, stunned. “Well, Johnny, I appreciate you telling me. You’ve done the right thing.”

  Whitehead hung his head. “I feel like I’ve let you down, Mr. President.”

  “I don’t feel that way, Johnny.” Whitehead raised his eyes. Long noticed they were watery. “If it comes out, we’ll deal with it.”

  “If it comes out, it’s going to be bad,” said Whitehead. “It could make it very difficult for me to continue to serve as vice president.” He took a sip of coffee. “Mr. President, I’m prepared to offer my resignation.”

  Long was stunned. “Johnny, I think you’re overreacting. Let’s see how it plays out first. I’ll think about it, but as of now I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  “Should I just try to get in front of it by releasing a statement saying I briefly visited this service years ago, it’s in the past, and I’ve moved on?”

  “I wouldn’t do that either,” said Long firmly. “Don’t hang yourself in order to pacify the mob. If I were you, I’d give a speech in which you ba
sically say you’ve made mistakes in the past, you’re not claiming to be a moral example, and express humility.” He arched his eyebrows, admiring his own strategy. “Then, if it ever does come out, you can point back to the statement and say you publicly admitted to unspecified instances of falling short.”

  “I just wanted you to know in case it comes out.”

  “You’ve got no issue with me, Johnny,” said Long, trying to reassure him. He put his hand on his shoulder. “I’ve got your back.”

  “I appreciate that more than you know, Mr. President.”

  The lunch was over, and they walked to the door of the Oval Office. Whitehead greeted the president’s assistant and then headed down the hall back to his own office. As he walked, he felt his chest tighten, the butterflies in his stomach fluttering. He felt as though he might throw up. If and when it became known he was on the dominatrix service’s client list, it was going to be a media firestorm; and the president’s assurances notwithstanding, he knew he might not survive.

  8

  Ross Lombardy hung up his cell phone and turned to Andy Stanton in the green room of the Washington Hilton. Andy, who grew irritable whenever he was about to be in the presence of presidents or heads of state, chewed nervously on a throat lozenge, his blue blazer pinched at the waist, pressed gray slacks tapered at his black cowboy boots, salt-and-pepper hair coifed into a male bouffant. He pored over the text of his introduction, printed in large type so he would not need his reading glasses.

  “That was Jay from the motorcade. POTUS’s ETA is three minutes,” said Ross.

  “I hope he’s ready,” said Andy. “Because this crowd is loaded for bear.”

  “He is. I had a planning meeting with Jay and the speech writers to go over themes and language. You will like.”

  Andy’s eyes danced with glee, his massive skull bouncing like a bobble-head doll. “Now we’re talkin’, brother,” he said. A makeup artist patted his nose with a powder puff, touching up his hair with a blast of hair spray. “Enough with the hair spray,” said Andy, swatting her away with the palm of his hand. “I’m one YouTube video away from being John Edwards.”