"You should talk."
"I'm a guy."
"There you go with the sexist stuff again."
Rapp glanced at her sideways and decided to ignore the comment. "I found the guy on Cyprus, dragged him back here yesterday, and handed him over to the FBI. They're going to announce the whole thing at ten o'clock this morning."
"Does the Secret Service know?"
"I talked to Jack Warch this morning. He knew."
"Bastards. You think they would have called me."
"Relax. There's a chance they only found out this morning."
Rivera shook her head. "You don't understand. I don't exist to them anymore. All I am is a reminder of one of the Service's greatest failures."
Rapp supposed she was right. They came up on a small diner, and Rapp grabbed the door and held it for her. They went to a booth near the back, and Rapp practically had to fight Rivera for the side that faced the door. Rapp took off his trench coat and when he sat down he lifted his right arm and checked out the torn seam on his suit coat.
"I'm going to pay for that," Rivera said.
Rapp ignored her. "So I have a few questions for you."
"I'm serious about paying for it. Don't ignore me."
"Are you always this confrontational, or is this all related to work?"
"I think I used to be a pretty positive person." She got reflective for a moment. "I was happy with my job. My life was good, although, things were a little barren in the love department, but when we're in campaign mode there's no time for anything, and then the damn bomb went off and it's been pretty shitty ever since then."
Rapp studied her, slightly surprised by her honesty. Rivera was an extremely attractive woman. She could use a little softening around the edges, but the beauty was undeniable, and it was all natural. She didn't have to work at a thing. Without any makeup or real sense of style she was an effortless eight. At a place like the Secret Service that would make her a ten, and like all law enforcement agencies the Secret Service had no shortage of puss hounds. If he remembered her file right she was in her mid-thirties. Any woman who was this attractive, and still single at this point in her life, must have some issues.
"You ever wish you had died in the attack?" Rapp knew it was a common reaction from survivors. Especially, survivors whose job it was to protect those who died.
Rivera studied Rapp for a moment and then said, "I think wish wish might be a little strong, but yeah, I've thought about it." might be a little strong, but yeah, I've thought about it."
The waitress pulled up to the table and killed the conversation. They both ordered coffee and water, and Rivera ordered the heart-healthy omelet while Rapp asked for the corned beef and hash. When the waitress was gone, Rivera began peppering him with questions about the man in the red hat. Rapp gave her the vanilla version only, maybe just a little more than what the FBI already knew and then he took control of the conversation.
"I haven't read the report in sometime, so I can't remember, did you use electronic jammers that morning?"
Rivera shook her head. "That was one of the things I've been criticized for."
"They were available to you and you didn't use them?" Rap asked a bit surprised.
"That's what they say, but there wasn't a person on the detail who knew that, and no one back at headquarters ever told us directly that they were available. They dug up some bullshit, cover your ass, interoffice memo that they claim was sent to us. The only problem is, during the campaign, we're on the fly nonstop. We don't have time to read a forty-page memo on our BlackBerry."
"So no jammers."
"Correct."
Rapp grabbed the salt-and-pepper shakers and lined them up one in front of the other and then switched them. "But you shuffled the cars, right?"
Rivera shook her head.
Her answer shocked Rapp, but he hid his surprise. "All right, walk me through the last five minutes, please. How were you deployed? When did you begin to roll...the whole routine." While Rivera began to talk, Rapp started to consider the possibility that Gazich had lied to him about the phone call telling him it was the second limo. If he'd lied to him about that, what else had he lied to him about? Rapp only half listened to Rivera as she relayed the details of the tragic afternoon. He was already trying to figure out how he could get his hands on Gazich for a more in-depth interrogation.
33.
GENEVA, SWITZERLAND.
T he idyllic town of Geneva was perhaps the most conflicted city on the planet. As the bedrock of puritanical Calvinism the city was as buttoned up and straitlaced as any in a country that prided itself on cleanliness, good manners, and lots of rules. That was by day. The cars, most of them BMWs, Mercedes, or Audis, were spotless. The men, most of them bankers, financiers, accountants, or lawyers, wore expensive handmade suits that never went out of style. By some estimates as much as a quarter of the world's private wealth was deposited in the vaults of Geneva's banks, which meant that a town with only a quarter million people held more private assets than New York, London, Paris, Hong Kong, or Tokyo. It hardly seemed possible, but it was. he idyllic town of Geneva was perhaps the most conflicted city on the planet. As the bedrock of puritanical Calvinism the city was as buttoned up and straitlaced as any in a country that prided itself on cleanliness, good manners, and lots of rules. That was by day. The cars, most of them BMWs, Mercedes, or Audis, were spotless. The men, most of them bankers, financiers, accountants, or lawyers, wore expensive handmade suits that never went out of style. By some estimates as much as a quarter of the world's private wealth was deposited in the vaults of Geneva's banks, which meant that a town with only a quarter million people held more private assets than New York, London, Paris, Hong Kong, or Tokyo. It hardly seemed possible, but it was.
The Genevese, like the long line of religious hypocrites who had gone before them, had somehow managed to reconcile their Calvinist beliefs with an absolute lust for money. How could a quarter of the world's private wealth end up in a relatively small city, you might ask. The answer was pretty straightforward. The Swiss maintained absolute secrecy when it came to their banking records. Many of their clients were legitimate business people and members of European royalty who simply wanted to keep their finances their own business. A disproportionate number, though, were reprobates and sociopaths. People who had lied, cheated, and even killed to amass their wealth.
If these bad eggs had simply deposited their ill-gotten gains in the high-polished banks of Geneva, the story of the city by the lake would have been fairly boring. There was a byproduct of this secret banking relationship, however, that the community's modern-day leaders had never predicted. Geneva had become a magnet for wealthy scoundrels and criminals from every continent. Because many of them obtained their wealth by breaking the law, they were wanted by their home countries for prosecution and in some cases the gallows.
This influx of sociopaths and megalomaniacs had created an extremely interesting social experiment. At least Joseph Speyer found it interesting. The fifty-six-year-old banker had grown up in Geneva, and like many gay men of his generation was forced to hide his sexuality until well into his thirties. His family was strict Protestant Reformation. Lots of rules and not a lot of fun. They were not unique in this regard, but all this repression ended up breeding a lot of closet gays, masochists, and perverts in general. Add to that the influx of extremely wealthy people suffering from a vast array of antisocial personality disorders and you had the perfect recipe for a city with a depraved counterculture.
Speyer was on his way to find one of Geneva's chief reprobates. It was Monday evening. Mondays were the one day of the week that the city's hot nightclubs were closed, nightclubs that when you stripped away the thirty-dollar drinks and fancy decor were nothing more than whorehouses. Prostitution was legal in Switzerland. That had been a big dilemma for the lawmakers. The fathers of the Reformation would have never approved of making the flesh trade legal, but it was argued that the banking business needed it to stay competitive. The influx of wealthy Arab princes and other international players who began flocking to the city in the seventies liked their women and they didn't mind paying exorbitant sums of money for them. After several decades of lying to themselves, and looking the other way, the ordered society came to grips with the problem, legalized it, and began collecting taxes.
Speyer took perverse joy in all of this. He was a voyeur at heart, and few things excited him more than meeting the needs of his sexually depraved clients. Cy Green was one such client. The man had a thirst for sex that to some might seem like an addiction, but comparing it to a few other people he knew, Speyer saw it as simply a healthy appetite. Green wanted sex every night. He had confided in Speyer that he thought it was all part of the alpha male persona. Monogamous sex was out of the question. Green preferred two women and foreplay that almost always involved him watching. Speyer knew because he'd been forced to sit through it.
Speyer wedged his BMW sedan into a spot a block away from Green's apartment and walked along the narrow sidewalk. He stepped into the relatively small foyer and approached the bulletproof glass to speak to the doorman. Geneva had become a city of bulletproof glass and bodyguards. Far too many of its wealthy immigrants were wanted by their former governments and business rivals. At least once a year, if not more, there was a salacious murder.
The man behind the glass recognized Speyer and greeted him in French before picking up the phone to call the penthouse. Green owned the top floor of the building. Six thousand square feet, which might not be obscene by normal wealthy standards, but was huge for downtown Geneva. After a moment the doorman buzzed Speyer through. When the banker reached the elevator, the door was already open. He stepped in, pressed the button for the top floor, and took off his leather driving gloves. The trip to the fourth floor was quick. When the door opened, Speyer found two men waiting for him. The older of the two was Green's personal valet and butler. He was dressed in a black waistcoat, black vest, white shirt, and black bowtie. Speyer handed him his gloves and turned around so he could take his coat for him. As soon as the valet had the gray cashmere overcoat off, the bodyguard stepped in with a handheld metal detector and ran it around the periphery of Speyer's body. It was the same routine every time; Speyer never complained and Green never apologized.
When they were finished, Speyer was escorted into the living room and asked if he cared for anything to drink. He told the manservant he was fine and checked his watch. He hoped Green wouldn't make him wait too long. It had been a long day and it was sure to be a long week. Some very big promises had been made and the time left to deliver on them was waning.
Six minutes later Green appeared in a blue silk robe with white piping and matching house slippers. His dark hair was slicked back and slightly messed up in back. The eternally tan billionaire strode across the room pulling on the robe's belt.
He looked at Speyer with a devilish grin and said, "You've come to watch, haven't you?"
"No." Speyer took off his black-framed glasses and placed them in his suit pocket. "I'm afraid I'm simply playing the role of messenger."
Green considered this for a moment and with a shake of his head said, "Follow me."
Speyer sighed and said, "I'm afraid I'm short on time."
Green kept walking. "Nonsense. We have important things to discuss. Plus I do not want to miss the show." He disappeared down the hallway and then a few seconds later his head popped back around the corner. "By the way, I just opened a bottle of ninety-two Screaming Eagle. Even a French wine snob like you can't say no to that."
A smile formed at the corners of Speyer's mouth and then his feet started to move. Green was right. Screaming Eagle was very rare and very hard to resist. He followed him down the hall to the master bedroom suite.
"Close the door behind you," Green commanded.
They walked through a wood-paneled library with a big screen TV and a sitting area. The heavy beat of Euro techno music could be heard beyond the double doors that led to the actual bedroom. Green thrust open the doors. Straight ahead was a turned-down king-size bed with black silk sheets. Speyer looked to his right knowing full well that was where the action would be. The large window that looked out over Lake Geneva was obscured by heavy black drapes that acted as a backdrop to the sex show that was taking place in the alcove of the window. Green had designed the small stage himself. The alcove was ten feet wide by four feet deep. On both sides were narrow doors that when opened revealed a series of hooks, chains, and ropes. Standing in the middle of the stage was a young blond wearing pigtails, clogs, and a short summer dress. Behind her stood a tall dominatrix covered, literally, in black latex from head to her spike heeled boots. The only openings were for her mouth, eyes, breasts, and crotch. The woman had a riding crop in one hand and an impossibly large dildo in the other.
"Sit," Green ordered.
Two chairs were already set up. Green brought over the bottle of wine and poured a second glass. Speyer, even though he was gay, had been titillated the first time he'd attended one of these private shows. Green mistook his excitement as proof that he was actually bisexual. Speyer had experimented with a lot of things over the years, but he was simply gay. Nothing really too complicated about it. He'd figured it out when he was eleven and then spent the next ten years or so trying to repress it. He knew now that the aspect of the sex show that had originally excited him was the corruption of youth. The fall from grace of a young heterosexual woman. After that one show, though, Speyer couldn't get past the fact that the women were simply Russian prostitutes whose fall from grace had taken place long before. Woo a duchess or other high society type, or even a straitlaced colleague over to the forbidden side, and that would be worth watching. These were just two hungry young women trying to earn some money by exciting a perverted billionaire.
"What do you think?" Green asked without taking his eyes off the women.
"Don't tell anyone."
"Since when did you get shy about this type of stuff?"
"I mean the wine." Speyer took a sip, savoring the California wine.
"It's good, isn't it?"
"Very, but I'm serious. You must not tell anyone."
"Relax." Green grinned. "Now, what is the message you've been sent to deliver?"
"I received a call this afternoon from Mr. Garret."
"Don't tell me that little fucker is trying to wiggle out of the deal?"
"It's interesting you should put it that way, because if I didn't know better, I would say that is exactly what he is trying to do."
Green's tanned face slowly turned toward Speyer. His eyes narrowed and he asked, "What in the hell did he say? I want to hear it word for word."
"Supposedly, the person who was hired to do the job has been captured."
"What?"
"The man who Vasili hired was caught. The Americans have him in custody. There was a press conference this afternoon." Speyer knew that Green was hearing this for the first time. The man never watched TV and left the Internet up to his assistants.
"How is that possible? Vasili told me himself that it was being taken care of."
"Obviously he was premature in his promise."
Green stood and began waving his hands. "Stop...stop. Girls, take a break. I'll be back in a few minutes." He grabbed the bottle of wine and said to Speyer, "Follow me."
They went out into the library and closed the double doors. Green set the bottle of Screaming Eagle on the fireplace mantle next to the pool table. A large portrait of none other than Green himself dominated the wall above the mantel.
Speyer stood on the other side of the pool table and looked at Green next to his portrait. The double image spoke volumes of the man and his ego. "As I'm sure you can imagine, Mr. Garret was extremely upset."
"When isn't that little fucker upset? Have you ever met a more irritating person in all your life?"
Speyer decided it was better to not answer the question. "He has a point this time."
"I'm beginning to question your wisdom. You were the one who advised me to do this. That's what I pay you to do. You said it would be a good return on my investment."
It was almost impossible for his clients to surprise him. He'd seen it all. Their selective memory, their ability to rationalize or simply forget every bad decision or deed they'd ever committed, was endless, while their capacity to fixate or create blame elsewhere was eternal. "Cy, before we go any further, I want to make it very clear that you brought this proposal to my attention. You expressed your desire to proceed from the very beginning and you never vacillated. You wanted to do this. I merely supported you."
Green stared at him for a moment and decided to change the subject. "I'll tell you what pisses me off. I've already spent millions of dollars on this. I've leveraged some of my most important contacts, I've risked a lot...and what have they done?"
Speyer shrugged.
"They haven't done shit. Where's my fucking pardon?"
"They always said it wouldn't happen until the last minute."
"What are they waiting for? There isn't much time left."
"I've told you it would likely take place this Saturday."
Green began pacing in front of the fireplace. "Are we sure the Americans have the right guy?"
"I have no way of knowing. Plus I have no idea who the right guy is."
"Yeah," Green said as if he had figured something out. "Vasili is the only one who knows. Have you called Vasili?"
"No." Speyer did not like dealing with the Russian mobster directly. Not if he could avoid it.
"I'll call him and find out what's going on, and in the meantime you call that little prick Garret and tell him I said I want my pardon."
Speyer nodded, took a large gulp of wine, and questioned once again the wisdom of working with men like Green and Garret.
34.
WASHINGTON, DC.
The Justice Department sat directly across Pennsylvania Avenue from FBI headquarters. Ross's motorcade pulled up to the building unannounced at 9:30 on Tuesday morning. Stu Garret, Jonathon Gordon, and Ross emerged from the back of the armored limousine and proceeded across the wide sidewalk surrounded by a phalanx of Secret Service agents. A single agent ran into the building ahead of everyone so he could alert security that the vice presidentelect was coming in to see the attorney general. Much of the hassle could have been avoided if they'd called ahead, but Ross liked to make surprise visits. The vice president to be told the agent in charge of his detail that it was a way of getting a better sense of how things actually ran. The agent suspected it had more to do with Ross liking to keep people off balance.
Ross, his chief of staff, and his campaign manager skirted the security lines and crowded into an elevator with four tall agents. They went to the top floor and down the hall to the attorney general's suite. During Ross's short stint as the director of National Intelligence he spent many mornings attending security briefings at the Department of Justice. They passed several administrative assistants in the hallway. Ross, always the politician, smiled and greeted them.
The attorney general had a good-sized outer office where three secretaries sat behind large desks. Ross was about to say good morning when the door to Stokes's conference room flew open. A six-foot-tall blond appeared in the doorway with her back to the reception area. She was wearing a brown, long-sleeved, formfitting dress, belted at the waist, and a pair of leather boots.
"You guys are out of your minds," she yelled. "You can find someone else. I'm not going anywhere near this thing."
"Peggy, please come back in here and sit down."
Ross and his entourage stood motionless and silent on the threshold between the hallway and the reception area. Ross knew this woman, and although he couldn't see Attorney General Stokes, he knew his voice well enough to know it was he who had asked her to come back in and sit down.
"Marty," the tall blond said, "you more than any other person in this building should know he is the wrong guy to mess with."