But he’s got five or six congressional committees gunning for him right now. You think he’s going to want the White House piling on, too?”
“Maybe not.”
The former Commerce Secretary shook his head mournfully.
“Maybe not. C’mon, John. We’ve been friends for twenty years. Get with the program! Do the right thing! You and I both know the FBI’s gonna wind up with crap all over its face if it presses this pointless investigation any further. And we also both know that dragging Prince Ibrahim’s name through the press won’t exactly help you, the administration, or the President.”
Garrett sat back, watching as the other man digested his implied threat. Adding the raw details of Caraco’s political contributions to the stories already in print might finally tip even a cynical public into giving a damn about the way the current president ran his fund-raising operations. If the water got too hot, Ibrahim could always jet off to Riyadh, the French Riveria, or one of the other homes he had scattered around the world. The President and his closest aides would be left hanging — faced by yet another congressional investigation and ever-higher legal Preston sighed. “You’re certain there’s nothing to this rumor the FBI’s following up?”
Garrett chuckled. “That Caraco employees decided to smuggle a nuclear weapon into Texas?” He laughed again, more scornfully this time. “I mean, think about it, John. The FBI’s all hot to trot. and why? Because some of our people got a little overzealous when they cleaned the place up before turning it over to the next tenants. Boy, that sure sounds like a criminal conspiracy to me …”
“I see your point,” Preston said slowly. “Put that way …”
Garrett nodded. “I suggest you do put it that way, John. Exactly that way.” He reached for his briefcase — conscious of another job well done. Prince Ibrahim al Saud paid him well to run interference for Caraco’s business operations in America, and the lawyer-lobbyist believed strongly in providing money value for.
The Special Agent Steve Sanchez grabbed the phone on the second ring, narrowly missing a teetering pile of reports. He’d flown back from Galveston only half an hour before, and he was still trying to dig down to the surface of his desk. “Sanchez.”
“This is Leiter,” the brusque voice on the other end said.
As in Director of the FBI David Leiter, Sanchez realized. He sat up straighter. “Yes, sir.”
“Are you alone?”
Still holding the phone, Sanchez moved around his desk and closed his office door. “I am now, sir.”
“Good.” Leiter took a deep breath. “Agent Sanchez, do you have any — and I mean, any — hard evidence of wrongdoing inside that Caraco Transport warehouse?”
“Not yet, sir,” Sanchez said. Hadn’t the Director read his latest report?
“Then I’m ordering you to close down your probe. Pull all your people off the case and inform the Galveston police that we’ve determined there’s no basis for any further investigation.”
Sanchez couldn’t hide his surprise. “What? You call an EMPTY QUIVER and then cancel it just two days later?”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing, Agent Sanchez,” Leiter said. “Shut it down and send every scrap of paper and computer disk you’ve generated to this office immediately.”
Sanchez sat down, still stunned by the order he’d just received.
The Bureau lived on procedures and regulations, and the Director’s instructions bordered on the illegal. He felt pulled in two directions at the same time. Part of him, the “good soldier” half, just wanted to shut up and do as he was told. The other side, the stubborn truth-seeker that made him a topnotch detective, wanted to demand an explanation.
Leiter must have sensed, or guessed, his indecision. “I can’t tell you much, Agent Sanchez, but it appears that we’ve stumbled into a hornet’s nest here. Caraco has a lot of friends in very high places — and none of them are very happy with what we’re doing.”
The Director’s voice dropped a level.
“The universal word I’m getting — from the Agency, the White House, and the Attorney General’s office — is that we’re barking up the wrong tree. Nobody believes Caraco would involve itself in any illegal activity, let alone something of this magnitude. And frankly, I think the source that triggered this EMPTY QUIVER is highly suspect. I’m tracking that back with the J.S.O.C myself.”
“Sir, I—” Sanchez said.
“The bottom line, Special Agent,” Leiter interrupted, “is that this investigation is more trouble than it’s worth. Without good, solid evidence of wrongdoing, we’re walking a high wire without a net. Do you understand what I mean?”
“I understand that somebody at Caraco is pulling some high-priced strings,” Sanchez said bitterly. He tamped down his temper. This was the perfect end to a perfect couple of days, but blowing up at the Director of the FBI wouldn’t be wise, polite, or career enhancing.
“Then you apprehend the situation perfectly,” Leiter replied. “So close it up, and call me when the material is on its way.”
Sanchez acknowledged and hung up. He paced back and forth in his tiny office, counting to ten, then counting again. Should he obey the order or not? If he really believed Caraco Transport had slipped a nuke into the U.S the answer was obvious. He’d have to disobey the Director — even at the cost of his own career.
But did he really believe that?
The FBI agent considered what he’d learned. The news that Leiter considered the EMPTY QUIVER source tainted wasn’t very reassuring. It wouldn’t be the first time that somebody had tried using the FBI to stick a shiv in a rival corporation’s ribs.
Was that what was going on here? What if Caraco Transport had only cleaned out its warehouse so thoroughly to protect some sort of trade secret? That seemed rather thin, but then so did everything else about this crazy case.
Sanchez grimaced. He just didn’t know enough. And that being the case, he decided to obey orders. Ultimately, Leiter was the boss, and it was his call. If the FBI Director didn’t think investigating Caraco more thoroughly was worth the price of admission, Sanchez would just have to trust his superior’s judgment.
“They’re shutting the Galveston investigation down?” Farrell said incredulously, staring across the table at the CIA analyst he’d invited to lunch.
Mark Podolski nodded. “I wish I’d known sooner what you were up to, Sam. I would’ve headed you off at the pass before you went galloping off to Fort Bragg.” He took a slug from his diet cola before explaining. “Caraco has connections all over town.
So when the FBI hit that warehouse, their top guy in D.C. started screaming bloody murder at the top of his lungs. And believe me when Dick Garrett gets pissed, the White House listens.”
“You think I jumped the gun?”
Podolski nodded. “Yeah.” He drank more of his soda. “I ran the data you gave me past my team. They all agree. There’s not enough solid stuff there to support the conclusion that somebody inside Caraco has his hands on a Russian nuke.”
Farrell pondered that. Podolski was one of Langley’s best analysts.
He never papered over holes in the data or ignored anomalies.
“So you don’t think anything strange is going on?”
The CIA officer shook his head. “I didn’t say that, Sam.” He folded his napkin and laid it beside the mostly untouched meal on his plate.
“There is a funny pattern there. And I buy the premise that those Su-24 engines were retagged and transshipped all over Europe — and probably into Galveston. But I just don’t see the motive for Caraco to smuggle nukes. If anything, the company’s Russian weapons subsidiary, Arms Export, may be doing a little aviation side business they’d like to keep quiet.”
Farrell frowned. “What about the possibility that those engines contained heroin?”
“That’s certainly more conceivable,” Podolski admitted. Then he held up a cautionary hand. “But I can tell you one thing for certain: Whether it’s drugs or nukes, I don’t think it’s something Caraco’s top echelon knows about.”
“How can you be so sure of that?”
