Capitol murder

Chapter Forty-three

Terrence Crawford didn’t get up when his secretary ushered Bobby Schatz and Dana Cutler into his office. Schatz sat opposite the AAG while Dana planted herself on a sofa that stood against the wall.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, Bobby?” Crawford asked. “My secretary says you were mysterious about the purpose of your visit.”

Instead of answering, Schatz tossed a copy of the transcript of his attorney-client conference with Ron Tolliver onto Crawford’s blotter. Dana watched Crawford lose color as he leafed through the pages.

“Where did you get this?” Crawford asked.

“That’s not important.” Schatz dropped a Motion to Dismiss for Prosecutorial Misconduct and a brief in support of the motion onto the desk. “What is important is the fact that you violated a court order and my client’s Sixth Amendment rights by continuing to listen in on our conference after I specifically told you to cease taping.”

“You have no legal right to this document, Schatz. It’s stolen government property.”

“Then why don’t you have me arrested? The transcript will be the key evidence in your case. I want to hear you explain to the judge how this transcript came into existence. You may also be interested in knowing that I have an associate looking into whether this taping is a violation of the federal criminal code.”

Crawford ignored Schatz and picked up the motion and the brief. Schatz sat perfectly still as Crawford thumbed through the citations to the cases that required dismissal of the charges against Ron Tolliver.

“So?” Schatz said when Crawford put down the brief.

“How did you get the transcript?” Crawford demanded.

Schatz stood up. “See you in court, Terry, where I believe the judge will be much more interested in your explanation of why you eavesdropped than how I discovered your unethical and possibly illegal activity.”

B obby Schatz waited until he and Dana had left the DOJ before breaking into a grin.

“Terry looked like he had a serious case of indigestion,” Schatz said.

“What do you think he’ll do?” Dana asked.

“Cave. He’s got no choice,” Schatz said just as Dana’s cell phone rang.

Dana held up a finger and stepped into a doorway to take the call.

“I’m thinking of publishing an article about angels,” Pat Gorman said.

“I haven’t come across too many of them in my line of work,” Dana answered.

“Well, it’s about time you acquainted yourself with some of the more famous ones, like Simone Martini’s Angel of the Annunciation.”

“And where might I find her?”

“This angel is named Gabriel and he hangs out-quite literally-in the West Building of the National Gallery.”

T he National Gallery of Art, located on the National Mall, was established in 1937 by a joint resolution of Congress with funds for construction and a substantial collection donated by Andrew Mellon. The collection is housed in two buildings, the neoclassical West Building and the modern East Building, which are connected by an underground passage.

Dana located The Angel of the Annunciation in Gallery 3 on the main floor of the West Building. A school group had just moved on, leaving Dana in the gallery with two Japanese tourists. As soon as they finished looking at the painting, Dana walked over to the panel that presented a side view of the angel Gabriel kneeling, clothed in an ornate robe rich with textured gold.

Dana didn’t know the name of the man she was going to meet, so she thought of him as Gorman’s Spook. He hadn’t told her his name or anything about his background the first time they had met at the National Museum of the American Indian during her investigation into the assassination attempt on Justice Moss. The only thing she knew about the Spook was that he had deep knowledge of the intelligence community.

A minute after the Japanese tourists walked away, Dana sensed someone stand beside her. The man had a pale complexion. He was wearing a ski jacket over a sweatshirt with a hood. The hood was up and Dana could just see his brown eyes and thin lips.

“Martini was one of the most influential artists in the Sienese school,” said the Spook in a voice so low that Dana had to strain to hear him.

“Really,” answered Dana, who couldn’t care less.

“The Angel was originally half of a two-part panel he painted around 1333. Imran Afridi will never be a model for any painting of an angel.”

“And that is because?”

“Afridi is from a very wealthy Pakistani family with diverse holdings. He was educated at Cambridge and returned to Karachi with a degree in finance to work in the family businesses. He lives in a walled estate in one of Karachi’s wealthier suburbs and keeps a low profile. Even so, he is suspected of financing terrorist operations.”

“Why hasn’t he been arrested?”

“Afridi’s family is very influential. They have a lot of money, which means they have several politicians in their pocket. Two of his brothers are high-ranking military. No one is going to make a move on Afridi unless the evidence is indisputable.”

“Is there anything showing a connection between Afridi and the attempt to blow up FedEx Field?”

“The bombers have been thoroughly interrogated. The only person they could finger is your client and, as you know, he hasn’t given anyone the time of day.”

“Jessica Koshani is on a board with Afridi.”

“More than one, but she was conveniently murdered before she could be questioned by the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence.”

“So that’s why she was in Washington.”

“InCo, one of her companies, is suspected of laundering money for terrorists. She may have helped finance the FedEx operation, but there’s no way to prove that, now that Koshani is dead.”

“Why isn’t there more intel on Afridi?”

“He’s not associated with any recognized terrorist organization like al-Qaeda. My sources say that terror is a hobby for him and he likes to run the show himself, like a boy with a model train set.”

“Is Afridi in Pakistan now?”

“No, he has a home in northern Virginia.” The Spook gave her the address. “He was in residence on the day of the attempt at FedEx Field, and he’s still there.”

“That seems odd. You’d think he would want to head home as soon as the plot failed.”

“Something is keeping him here, but I can’t help you with that.”

“Thanks,” Dana started to say but the Spook was already moving to another section of the gallery, where he commenced to study Joachim and the Beggars, by Andrea di Bartolo.

T he traffic was deadly, and it took Dana an hour and a half to find Afridi’s estate. It was in the countryside, approachable by a narrow country lane and sequestered in the middle of a forest of oak and maple. Dana drove along the wall that protected Afridi’s house and grounds from prying eyes. An iron gate sealed off the only entry from the road. Dana could make out a guard shack behind the gate and a guard wearing a blazer, a black turtleneck, and tan slacks. He looked fit and ex-military, and Dana bet he was armed.

Dana parked at the far end of the wall and walked a circuit around the property. There were gaps where she could see the house, but she also saw other guards, and she bet there were security measures she couldn’t see. When she decided that she wasn’t going to learn anything useful, Dana drove home.

A man wearing camouflage lay in a blind in the woods high up the tree-covered slope across from the entrance to Afridi’s estate. As soon as Dana’s car was out of sight, he lowered his binoculars and radioed in her license number. When he learned the name of the owner, he called his superior and told him that Dana Cutler had conducted surveillance of Imran Afridi’s property.