Capitol murder

Chapter Fifty

One advantage of being from old wealth and a graduate of the best schools was the ease with which one was able to gain membership in the best clubs. Terrence Crawford had graduated from Princeton and Yale and had been born into a family that traced its roots to the winning side of the American Revolutionary War, which explained why he was a member of one of New York’s most exclusive clubs. The brownstone was three quarters of a block off Fifth Avenue on a side street near the Guggenheim Museum. There was no plaque affixed to the door. If you were a member of the club, you knew where it was located. If you were not a member, you did not need to know.

A servant opened the front door. It had snowed in Manhattan, and Crawford stomped on the welcome mat in the vestibule to shake off the snow that adhered to his shoes.

“Welcome back, Mr. Crawford. We haven’t seen you in a while,” the doorman said.

“I’ve been too busy to get up, Frederick.”

“Well, it’s good to see you again. Your guests are waiting in the library on the second floor.”

It would have been too risky for the three men to get together in Washington, D.C. Meeting at Crawford’s club assured that they would be shielded from prying eyes. Crawford handed Frederick his overcoat and took the stairs. Portraits of a few of the club’s more venerable members graced the walls of the second-floor corridor. There were two past American presidents, a former Supreme Court justice, and the founders of two of America’s largest corporations. Halfway down the hall, Crawford opened a door into a room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

Crawford’s guests were sitting in high-backed armchairs upholstered in maroon leather, warming themselves in front of the fire that had been laid in a stone fireplace.

“Sorry, my flight was delayed,” Crawford said. “The weather.”

There was a carafe of aged Cognac and an empty glass standing on an end table. Crawford saw that his guests had been imbibing, so he filled his glass and settled in a third armchair.

“To a successful end to a brilliant plan,” Bobby Schatz said as he and Crawford raised a glass toward Dr. Emil Ibanescu, the deputy director of national intelligence.

“A plan that could not have succeeded without your cooperation,” Ibanescu said as he raised his glass of amber liquid and returned his companions’ salute. “The United States owes a debt to both of you, although, Terry, you may have to wait to receive the praise you deserve.”

“I’m a patriot, Emil. I was never in this for a reward. But I know Bobby’s making out like a bandit. I hear Senator Carson hired you, and I bet he’s not the only scumbag who is going to throw a retainer at you, now that the media is reporting your part in gaining a dismissal for one of history’s most heinous traitors.”

Schatz smiled. “Come on, Terry, give me a break. There’s no one here but us coconspirators.”

Crawford laughed. “I’m yanking your chain, Bobby. If you hadn’t come in with us, we could never have pulled this off.”

“Are you certain your man is safe?” Schatz asked Ibanescu.

Ibanescu shrugged. “We can never be sure. Things go wrong all the time. I fed Carson misinformation at the meeting of the SSCI to make him think we didn’t know that FedEx Field was Afridi’s target. We wanted Koshani to think we were in the dark. Who knew Lucas Sharp would kill her? And who knew Ali Bashar had that kind of mind? All I do know is that we’ve done everything we can to make sure our man is still in place. His information saved thousands, but Afridi will try again, and we can only pray he’ll come through for us the next time.”

Crawford was about to respond when Frederick held open the door for a visitor.

“Your investigator, Mr. Schatz,” the doorman informed the defense attorney. “She said it was urgent.”

Dana walked into the room.

“What the fuck?” Crawford yelled as he jumped to his feet.

Suddenly, Frederick looked unsure of himself. He turned to Crawford. “She gave me a card. It says she works for Mr. Schatz. Is there a problem, sir?”

Crawford looked as though he was going to say something. Then he changed his mind. “It’s okay, Frederick. Thanks.”

“What are you doing here?” Crawford demanded as soon as the door closed.

“I’m here to give you gentlemen a chance to clarify a few points in my story before it goes to press in Exposed.”

Crawford looked horrified, Schatz frowned, but Ibanescu’s face betrayed no emotion.

“What might this story be about?” Ibanescu asked.

“Right now, it’s about a conspiracy between a deputy director of national intelligence, a defense attorney, and an assistant attorney general to fix a case so a notorious terrorist would get out of jail. Then there’s my personal angle; the part about how a reporter was assaulted and kidnapped by intelligence agents when she got too close to the truth. I think my story will cause a stir, don’t you?”

“I think any reporter who published a story like that would end up broke and discredited, or worse,” Crawford said.

“Now, now, Terry,” Ibanescu said. “I don’t think threats will work with Miss Cutler. They might even make her more determined to publish her story. Besides, I don’t think she would be talking to us if she really wanted to have her tale see the light of day.”

Ibanescu turned toward Dana. “Why are you here?”

“To make certain that my friend, Ginny Striker, doesn’t take the fall for you.”

“How did you figure it out?” Schatz asked.

“You screwed up, Bobby. You told me Ben Mallory wouldn’t work on Tolliver’s case because his brother was killed in the World Trade Center bombing, but Ben’s brother is alive and well and was never anywhere near New York on 9/11. Once I knew that, I also knew why a new lawyer at Justice was suddenly transferred to the Counterterrorism unit. You wanted Tolliver out of custody because he’s a spy for American intelligence. That, Dr. Ibanescu, is why you convinced Schatz to take Tolliver’s case and made sure Tolliver was held at a place where Schatz could get to him.

“And that’s why you intentionally recorded Schatz’s attorney-client conference, Terry.”

“I told you we had to be careful,” Schatz said after barking out a laugh. “She’s too fucking smart.”

“I don’t think she’s smart,” Crawford said to Schatz. “If she was smart, she would have learned not to fuck with us after we disappeared her.”

Crawford turned to Dana. “Unless you have a death wish, you’ll kill your story and never tell it to another soul.”

Dana glared at the prosecutor. “I think you’re a chickenshit who gets his jollies from pushing your subordinates around. But I don’t work for you, and I do not like to be threatened.”

“Hey, Dana, calm down,” Schatz said.

“Tell us what you want,” Ibanescu said calmly.

Dana continued to stare at Crawford. Then she turned away and answered Ibanescu.

“I have no problem with what you did. If it was up to me, everyone involved in the plot to blow up that stadium would be dead. But I’m not going to stand by and see Ginny Striker turned into a sacrificial lamb. You fix her problems at the DOJ and no one will ever learn how Tolliver really got out of custody.”

“That’s it?” Ibanescu asked.

“That’s it. You fixed my parking ticket, so I’ve got no gripe with the CIA anymore.”

Ibanescu laughed and Crawford said, “What parking ticket?”

“I’ll talk to someone tomorrow,” Ibanescu said. “Your friend will be fine.”

“Then so will you three,” Dana said.

“It’s been a pleasure,” Ibanescu answered with a smile. “And I mean that.”

Schatz lifted his glass to toast Dana. “You are a real piece of work, Cutler.”

Crawford was still fuming when the door closed behind the investigator.