Pursuit of Honor

CHAPTER 54

WASHINGTON, D.C.

RAPP cruised up Massachusetts Avenue toward Rock Creek. His mind worked geographically. It connected dots like stick pins on a map with strings running between points of interest, linking one location or fact to another. He was listening to Special Agent Art Harris, the FBI’s senior guy at the NCTC. Art had just stuck a pin in Rapp’s map and it wasn’t making a lot of sense. He trusted Harris, though, so he let him work his way through the preamble rather than telling him to cut to the heart of it.

Harris and Rapp had a nice arrangement. Through unofficial channels Art passed along what the FBI knew on various cases that bumped up against things Rapp and his people were dealing with. And he made sure very little was put in writing. Over the last few years, his early warnings had allowed Rapp to get out in front of certain things and deal with them before all the badges and lawyers showed up.

Harris had just told Rapp about an investigation in Iowa. Two bodies had been found in the basement of a torched farmhouse. They were burned beyond recognition, but preliminary reports said they’d been shot. The local sheriff was all but sure they were two hunters who had gone missing the day before. He gave Rapp the back-story on what the sheriff thought had happened. While Rapp found it all about as interesting as a whodunit episode of Primetime he knew there had to be more to the story, or Harris wouldn’t have bothered to call.

“The sheriff called the JTTF gang over in Chicago,” Harris said.

JTTF stood for Joint Terrorism Task Force. They were formed after 9/11 to foster cooperation and preparedness between the myriad local and federal law enforcement agencies in communities across the country. “I’m listening.”

“The barn almost caught fire but survived the blaze. Inside, the sheriff found a bunch of supplies . . . the kind of crap the Armageddon types would have. A bunch of MREs, guns, ammunition, and some handy-dandy military grade C-4 plastic explosives complete with detonators. They also found a couple of backpacks that contained maps, cash, credit cards, IDs, and passports.”

“Photos?” Rapp asked, already knowing the names would be bullshit.

“Yeah.”

“Your boys run them through TIDE?” TIDE stood for Terrorist Information Datamart Environment and was an extensive database run by the NCTC.

“Doing it right now, but it doesn’t look promising. They prioritized it and have already blown through all the usual suspects. What’s left we wouldn’t be interested in. Unless you think one of these guys might be Filipino.”

“No . . .” Rapp said as he thought about it. Some weird crap went on in the rural areas across the heartland. It was amazing the type of hardware these militia groups could get their hands on. It was probably nothing, but just in case he said, “Do me a favor and send the photos to my BlackBerry.”

“I will, but there’s one other thing you might find interesting. The farm was purchased about six months ago by an LLC. It was handled by an attorney out of New York.”

“I’m sure people do that all the time.” Rapp had done it himself.

“I’m sure they do. The sheriff also said no one has ever seen anyone use the place. Kinda strange when you think of those Hitler-lovin’ groups. They tend to turn these places into full-blown communes. People coming and going all day and all night.”

“Yeah . . .” Rapp said, “I suppose you’re right.”

“Well, I just thought I’d pass it along. I wouldn’t be surprised if the wonder boys at Justice decided to send us knocking on that New York attorney’s door come Monday. If for no other reason than the C-4.”

It was late Friday morning. Rapp considered the possibilities. “Did the sheriff by any chance give your boys a copy of the deed and all the title work?”

“Public record. I’m looking at a copy right now.”

“Good. Send it to me. And cc Marcus. Are your guys from Chicago on scene?” Rapp asked.

“They got there an hour ago and we have a Rapid Deployment Team on standby.”

“Good.” Rapp took a half loop around Sheridan Circle and continued one short block before taking a right onto Decatur Place. The place he was looking for was on S Street, but he wanted to drive past the back first to see if there was anything of interest. Up ahead on his left he got his answer. “Hey, Art, I gotta run. Thanks for the info and call me as soon as you hear anything else.”

Rapp hit the end button and then hit the speed-dial button for Marcus Dumond. A few seconds later the computer genius was on the line. “Marcus . . . you’re gonna get an email from Art in the next few minutes. It’s going to have a copy of a deed and title for a farm in Iowa. It was purchased a few months back by an LLC. An attorney out of New York handled it. Do you think you could get into his system and find out where the money came from?”

“To buy the property?”

“Yeah.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. Give me an hour or two.”

“Thanks. Call me as soon as you find anything.” Rapp slowed down and looked through his heavily tinted windows at the back entrance to the big property. A serious man with a dog was on the other side of the gate. At the end of the block Rapp hung a left on Twenty-second and then another left on S Street. A third of the way down he pulled over and dug out the business card. It was a local number, so he skipped the first three digits and punched in the next seven. A woman answered on the second ring.

“Mr. Sidorov’s private line, how may I help you?”

“Peter, please.”

“May I have your name?”

“No thanks. Just tell him it’s his friend from last night. He gave me his business card at the club,” Rapp said as he looked through his windshield at the recently purchased $8 million federal style home. “Trust me,” he said to the young woman, “he’ll take the call.”

Rapp didn’t have to wait too long. Sidorov’s familiar voice came on the line and said, “Mr. Rapp, good to hear from you so soon. Have you decided to come work for me?”

Rapp cringed at the thought that the FBI’s counterespionage boys might be listening in. He would have to play things really straight while they were on the phone. “I was actually thinking you could come to work for us.”

Sidorov had a good chuckle and then said, “I don’t think you can afford me.”

“Probably not, but I thought I’d play to your newfound love of freedom and democracy.”

“Yes, that would be your only chance. Now listen . . . I had friend in Russian intelligence fill me in on your exploits this morning. You are a very interesting man. A dangerous one as well, according to my source.”

“Only if you piss me off.”

“Well,” he said dramatically, “I hope I have not offended you.”

“Not yet.”

“You didn’t seem too pleased last night.”

“I was more upset with your new business associate than you.”

“He was only trying to make a little money. I can’t begin to imagine trying to live on one of those pensions they give you.”

“I don’t suppose you could, with your high-flying lifestyle, but that’s not really the point. He knew the rules and he broke them.”

“And me?” Sidorov said a bit tentatively.

“You didn’t break any law that I’m aware of.”

“Well.” He laughed. “You don’t know me yet.”

“I know enough. I made some calls as well.”

“And?”

Rapp didn’t answer for a beat. “I think we should sit down and discuss a few things.”

“I would love to. How does your evening look?”

“Not good,” Rapp said, looking at the house. “How about right now?”

Sidorov laughed. “I am barely awake, Mr. Rapp. I still haven’t adjusted to the time change and we stayed out very late last night.”

“That’s all right. I didn’t get much sleep either. Besides . . . you Russians can all handle your booze.” Rapp put the car in drive and pulled across the street into the flat U-shaped drive. “Listen, I’m parked in front of your house right now. Invite me in for a cup of coffee. I’m kind of on a tight schedule this morning.” Rapp turned off the engine and got out. He counted to ten and then Sidorov appeared in a second-story window. He was still in a robe.

“You are a resourceful man, Mr. Rapp. How do I know you are not here to kill me?”

Rapp looked up at him and wondered what assurance he could offer. “For starters . . . I don’t like to shit in my own yard.”

“Meaning?” Sidorov asked.

“This is Washington. I live here. I don’t need that kind of exposure. Besides, if I was going to do something like that I wouldn’t call you up and ask you to talk. I’d just do it. You’d never see me coming.”

Sidorov thought about it for a long moment. “I suppose you are right. I’ll tell my people to let you in. Give me a few minutes to get dressed.”