The Assassin's Trail (4 page)

Stephanie gave him the name, and he went to his office. Closing the door, he found the number he was looking for on his iPhone and pressed the call icon. His call was answered on the second ring, “Detective Clark, Homicide.”

Kruger smiled. He knew Clark would still be working on a Friday night.

“Ryan, it’s Sean Kruger. How are you tonight?”

“Sean, good to hear from you. Thanks for getting the Rousch case off my desk so quickly. I knew it was beyond our jurisdiction. What’s up?”

“What was the name of the Secret Service agent with you last Friday? Ed or Ted something?”

“That was Ted Margolin, good guy. I’ve known him for a long time. He used to be with our department before they recruited him. Why?”

“I was asked a question today, one I couldn’t answer. I need to run a name by him to see if he knows anything, that’s all.”

“Well, I know he’ll talk to me, not sure about someone he doesn’t know. I don’t mind calling him. Besides I owe you for last week.”

“That would really speed things up. Got a pencil?”

Kruger gave him the information about Whiterock, and Clark said, “I’ll call you back after I talk to him, might be Monday. Will that work?”

“Fine with me. Thanks, Ryan.”

“I heard a rumor this week you might be getting married and retiring, is that true?”

“Yes to the first and no to the second.” He didn’t feel like getting into long explanations tonight.

“Glad you took my advice, congratulations. And I’m pleased you’re not retiring. Not enough of us good guys left. When’s the wedding?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Really? Shotgun wedding?”

Kruger chuckled. “No, we figured we weren’t getting any younger, so why wait.”

“Yeah, I hear you on not getting any younger. I hope I find someone like her someday. Next time you’re in D.C., call me, I’ll buy you a beer.”

“Sounds good, Ryan. Call me as soon as you talk to Margolin.” Kruger ended the call and sat staring at the wall. He knew how rumors started and wondered who Seltzer had told about his plans.

The phone rang less than five minutes later with Clark’s name on the caller ID.

Without delay he took the calld, “Kruger.”

“What kind of shit storm did you get me into, Sean? Margolin almost bit my head off. He wants to know what you know, and he wants to know it right now.”

Richmond, CA

Friday

He read the saved email draft for the third time, then pressed the delete icon on his Samsung smartphone. The corners of his mouth edged slightly higher. Clean shaven with black hair cut short, his dark eyes stared out from behind black-rimmed glasses sitting on a narrow aquiline nose. He could have been a resident of any country bordering the Mediterranean Sea. Norman Ortega knew the man as Eduardo Acosta, a Spaniard. The man was not from Spain.

“I take the message was good news?” The older bearded man sat at a table sipping strong tea from a short glass.

“Yes.”

The older man nodded. “You should be proud of your deception, Aazim. So far, the infidels do not know jihad has landed on their shores.”

“They soon will.”

“Come, sit with me and tell me what you have planned. The brothers will be interested in what their money is paying for.”

Aazim Abbas did not sit down. He turned and began pacing the small apartment, which overlooked Marina Bay, near Richmond. It was small by American standards, but spacious compared to where Abbas had lived in Paris. He stared out the window facing the bay, his revulsion of American excesses reinforced by what he saw. Private yachts and sail boats populated the docks west of his apartment. Women, who thought nothing of exposing their bodies in public, littered the boats in the bay.

“Tell the brothers their money is being spent wisely. By this time next week, everyone in the United States will know someone is preying on them. But they will have no idea who.”

He turned and looked at the cleric. “When the time is right, we will broadcast to the world who is responsible. Until then, we must keep a low profile. Inshallah.”

The bearded man nodded. “Yes, yes. I agree. But I must warn you some of our supporters believe we should accept responsibility for each event. They grow impatient.”

“Let them be impatient. They are not here, dealing with the security.” Aazim’s eyes narrowed and his brow wrinkled. “I will not be rushed. They sent me here to bring jihad to the Americans. I am doing that. Tell them it must be done my way, or they can replace me. It has taken two years for our planning to bear fruit. Now they expect instant results.”

“They are not unhappy, just anxious.” The older man stood and walked to Aazim. He placed his hand on the younger man’s shoulder and said in a soft voice. “We are dealing with old men with too much time on their hands. Old men who do not understand the complexity of your task. Let them voice their concerns, as it makes them happy. Keep to your schedule. Do not let their words sway you.”

Abbas stared into the eyes of his mentor and nodded. “I will keep my tongue quiet.”

“Good. Now, sit, join me for tea. We will discuss the next phase of your plan.”

Aazim sat next to the older man and sipped on a glass of strong, bitter black tea. He was quiet for several minutes. Finally, the Imam said, “My brother, I have seen that look in your eye before. What have you decided?”

“Do you have any believers in your mosque? Zealots who are anxious to be with Allah?”

“Yes, we have several.” The older man nodded slightly and sipped his tea. “I did not think you wanted that sort of activity yet.”

“Maybe the old men are correct. Maybe I am being too cautious.” He took another sip of tea, carefully lowered the small glass to the table and turned to the Imam. “What is the one thing Americans cherish most?”

“Their possessions?”

“Yes, but they cherish acquiring those possessions more. They do not really care for what they buy; they just love to buy. What if we struck at the heart of the beast? The very embodiment of this obsession of buying things.”

“Yes. Yes, I see where your mind is taking you, Aazim. But what of your other plan?”

“It will move ahead without interruption. This will be extra. We will strike in the heart of the country, at the very belly of the beast itself.”

The Imam smiled. “Tell me what is in your mind, Aazim.”

Abbas nodded and proceeded to tell his mentor.  

Kansas City, MO

Friday evening

“Ryan, slow down. What exactly did Ted say?”

“When I gave him the name you asked about, he was silent for a few seconds. Then in a quiet voice, he said, ‘Why are you asking about this person?’ So I replied, ‘Sean Kruger with the FBI, you know you met him a week ago when Rousch was killed. He’s following up on a lead and was just curious if you had heard of them.’ That’s when he went psycho on me. First he wanted to know why the FBI was investigating the man, then he wanted to know why he was going through me, then... Well, he just didn’t make any sense. I calmed him down and said you’d call him. Call him right now, Sean, before the guy has a heart attack.”

Kruger suppressed a laugh. “Okay, obviously I hit a nerve. I’ll call him right now. As far as I’m concerned, you were never involved. We did not have this conversation. If someone checks the phone records, we were talking about the wedding to see if you could possibly get here, do you understand?”

“Yeah, I appreciate that, Sean. Let me know how it goes.”

“I will. Good night.”

Kruger ended the call and sat for a moment, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Apparently the man he had asked about was on a watch list within the Secret Service. If so, why?

Stephanie knocked and opened the office door to check on him. “Have you found out anything?”

“At the moment I’m not sure. Give me a few minutes; I need to make another call. Maybe then I can make sense of the last one.”

Stephanie had been around him long enough to know it was time to shut the door and wait, which she did. Kruger gathered his thoughts and dialed the number Clark had given him for Margolin. The call was answered on the fourth ring. “If this is Kruger, you have a lot of explaining to do.”

“Obviously the individual I inquired about is known to your organization.”

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing? Why are you investigating Fernando Guevara?”

“Actually, I’m not. His name came up, I became curious and made a phone call, that’s all.”

Margolin was quiet for a moment. “Why are you curious?”

“My fiancée works for a company Whiterock is interested in. Guevara has bought a lot of stock and is trying to get a seat on the board, or something like that. Hell, I don’t know this crap. She and everybody in her office are nervous. I was trying to help and find out what I could. Nothing diabolical or sinister, simply trying to get some information for my future wife.”

Kruger could hear a sigh on the other end of the phone. “Okay, I understand, Clark said I can trust you. What kind of information do you need?”

“Tell me about Guevara. What’s his story?”

“Fernando Guevara is the son of Spanish immigrants, Philippe and Isabelle Guevara. They arrived in New York City in the summer of 1940. The dad was a tailor, opened a small shop in the South Bronx. Fernando was born in 1950, graduated from New York City College and took a job as a stock broker on Wall Street. Made his first million by the time he was twenty-four, then lost it during the oil embargo years of the seventies. The eighties were kind to him. He worked for several firms, then found a home as a fund manager at Goldman Sachs in 1989. Apparently, he made a ton of money during the dot com period, left Goldman Sachs and formed Whiterock Equities. That’s when he became politically active. He is a major donor to the current president’s party.”

“I see. Thus the Secret Service’s interest.”

“Yeah. Thus our interest. He and the president are very close. He dines at the White House at least once, sometimes twice a month. We’ve vetted him several times, for security reasons. Plus, there was a rumor he was going to be tapped for a cabinet position. So far, that hasn’t happened. The only thing questionable we found about the man was his business practices. He’s ruthless when he sets his sights on acquiring a company.”

“How so?”

“He’s an egotistical bastard. He surrounds himself with very intelligent individuals, but if they disagree with him, he fires them. One such individual told us he got into a discussion with Guevara about how a target company was being evaluated. Guevara told him he was wrong; the guy calmly showed him the data, insisting he was right. Guevara started screaming at the guy, firing him in the middle of a meeting. The only reason he keeps good people is he pays twice what they would make anywhere else.”

Kruger thought about this for a moment, started to say something but decided not to. “Okay, he’s a jerk, that’s not a crime. Why is the Secret Service so sensitive about this guy?”

“Because of his relationship with the president. Individuals higher up the ladder than I scratch their collective heads on why the president likes the guy. When he buys a company, the first thing he does is start letting people go. We were told this practice has two purposes. One, it immediately cuts overhead, and two, makes the survivors work harder. He then reorganizes the company and sells it outright, or breaks it up into various smaller companies. He then sells these entities separately. Whichever way he does it, people lose their jobs. We were told Whiterock regularly produces profits in the eight to nine figure range.”

“How much has he contributed to the president?”

“A lot.”

“Well, there you go. Money has a tendency to create strange friendships sometimes.”

Margolin sighed, “Yeah, I suppose it does.”

“Ted, thanks for the info. I owe you one.”

“Well, let’s chalk it up to interagency cooperation, what’d ya say?”

“Sounds good, talk to you later.” Kruger ended the call and got his laptop out.

He emerged from his office twenty minutes later and went straight to the coffee pot. After checking to see if it was still on from dinner, he poured two cups. He looked at Stephanie, who was sitting at the dining room table checking emails on her laptop. He motioned for her to follow him to the balcony. He sat down at the bistro table and stared out at the lights of The Plaza. Stephanie sat down and waited for him to start talking.

“Stef, the guy who owns Whiterock does exactly what you told me. He buys his way into a company, takes it over, and then sells off the pieces. Fernando Guevara believes he can do no wrong. He buys and sells companies like a used car dealer. No concern for the employees of the companies. They’re just part of the assets.” 

Stephanie sipped her coffee and said, “Should I warn someone at my company?”

Kruger shrugged. “I don’t know, his tactics aren’t secret. I’m sure your senior management is aware of how he does business.”

Stephanie grew quiet and stared out past the balcony. After several minutes, she said, “What can I do, Sean? I have to warn someone.”

“I’m familiar with the psych profile, individuals who have an inflated perception of their own importance. They surround themselves with people who agree with everything they say. The rest of humanity is here to serve their needs and bow down to them. His personality type is dangerous when they have a gun, but this guy is probably more treacherous in other ways. The only thing I can suggest is talk to Neil. I’m not sure he can do anything if Guevara buys the stock he needs.”

Stephanie reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Thank you, I appreciate you making the phone call. As I told you Friday night, I’ve lost my lust for making sales goals, and if something happens to the company…” She shrugged. “Let’s concentrate on ourselves for a change, not the job.”

“Whatever happens, we’ll get through it together,” Kruger said with a smile. “Hell, who knows, Oklahoma City might look pretty good in a few months.”