A Brewing Storm: A Derrick Storm Short Read online

  “It’s hard for me,” Storm replied, “to imagine that an armed gang of environmentalists kidnapped the senator’s stepson.”

  “You asked me to identify his enemies. That’s what I’m doing. Being thorough.”

  Storm called over the waiter and ordered another beer. “OK, besides the tree huggers, who’s next on the enemies list?”

  “As chair of the Senate Intelligence Committee, Windslow wields tremendous power. He’s always been a strong advocate of Israel. That makes him hated by Middle Eastern extremists.”

  “Any particular terrorist cell?”

  “All of them despise him. He’s also managed to alienate the Russians, the Germans, and the Greeks. He’s a rabid anti-Communist and doesn’t trust the new Russian leaders; he believes all Germans are closet Nazis, and he dislikes socialist countries.”

  “How can anyone hate the Greeks?” Storm asked. “All they ever do is break plates and spend Euros that they don’t have.”

  Showers didn’t smile. “There’s also your people—the intelligence community. Senator Windslow and Jedidiah were all buddy-buddy tonight in the senator’s office, but there are rumors they’re fighting about a covert operation. And their dispute has gotten nasty.”

  “What covert operation?”

  “Don’t know. It’s above my pay grade. Maybe you can find out.”

  “Do you honestly believe Jedidiah is behind the kidnapping?” Storm said skeptically.

  “At this point, I’m not counting out anyone. I think you CIA types are capable of anything. Even your arrival here today could be part of a ruse.”

  She finished her coffee and carefully placed the cup back on its saucer.

  Although Showers had already given him a long list of suspects, Storm suspected she was holding back. He’d learned a long time ago that during interviews, it was the last thing that people told him that often held the most important clue.

  “If our roles were reversed,” he said sympathetically, “I’d be pissed. I’d think, 'Who the hell does this guy think he is barging into my investigation?’I wouldn’t be as helpful as you have been just now. But a crime’s been committed, and there’s a chance that Matthew Dull may still be alive. We owe it to him to put all of our cards on the table, so if there is anything else that you can tell me, anything at all, please share it.”

  He sounded sincere. He was very good at sounding sincere. It had always served him well—at work and in bed.

  Showers sat quietly for a moment. “About a year ago, the bureau began hearing reports that Windslow was on the take. Bribes. Big ones. The first complaint came from a Texan who had bid on a lucrative military contract. One of Windslow’s staff members demanded a kickback. When the Texan refused, the contract went to another company. The Texan called us, but all we had was his word and that wasn’t enough—not to build a criminal indictment against a U.S. senator.”

  “You began digging.”

  She nodded. “I wasn’t going to let it go. I discovered Windslow was adding riders to legislation that permitted oil companies to move millions of dollars from their overseas operations into the U.S. without paying federal income taxes.”

  “But that’s not illegal,” Storm said. “Senators screw with the IRS all the time to help out their friends.”

  “Right. But I discovered that Windslow was collecting a fee based on how much money he helped the oil companies get back into the country tax-free. Or, I should say, I got several people to talk about kickbacks. But nothing on paper. Windslow is smart. And then I found a smoking gun. I discovered a wire transfer that I felt certain was a bribe paid to Windslow by someone overseas.”

  “Who? A government, a corporation, an individual?”

  “I’m not sure. Bribery is difficult to prove. The person who paid it isn’t going to talk. The person who got it isn’t going to talk. Most times, you can only make a criminal case if you have a money trail.”

  Storm didn’t interrupt. He wanted her to keep talking. But he was very familiar with how bribes worked and how to hide them. He’d helped Jedidiah distribute millions of dollars in Iraq and Pakistan. The agency had handed out hundred-dollar bills as if they were Halloween candy—all unbeknownst to Congress and the American taxpayer.

  Showers said, “I was able to trace a six-million-dollar payment from a London bank account to the Cayman Islands, where it was converted into cash and brought to Washington, D.C. I’m fairly certain it ended up in Windslow’s hands.”

  “Fairly certain or positive?”

  A pained look appeared on her face. His question had hit a nerve. She said, “I feel confident that I had developed a sufficient circumstantial case—enough to indict. But when my file reached the director’s office, it was put on ice. No one would tell me why. That was three weeks ago.”

  Showers glanced at her watch. It was eleven and the restaurant was closing. She collected the two letters from him. “I’ve done what I was told,” she said. “I’ve briefed you. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at eight A.M. sharp. We have set up a command post at FBI headquarters. If you have additional questions, then you can ask them to my bosses tomorrow at the briefing.”

  “I do have more questions,” he replied. “Since the restaurant is closing, let’s go upstairs to my suite so we can talk more.”

  “I don’t think talk is what you have in mind.”

  He grinned. “Depends on the kind of talk. At least let me walk you to your car.”

  “I’m armed, and I think I can make it through the hotel lobby to the valet without your help.” Then, for the first time since they’d met, she actually smiled and said, “Besides, I think I have more to fear from you than I do from any strangers.”

  “Ouch,” he replied, touching his heart as if he’d been shot. “Just trying to be gentlemanly,” he said, intentionally repeating her words.

  “Then you can pay the check—Mr. Steve Mason.”

  He watched her walk away from the table, admiring the dazzling results of her yoga routine hidden under her tailored slacks. As soon as he’d signed the bill with his room number and fake name, Storm followed her. But by the time he reached the lobby, she was already behind the wheel of her BMW. He stepped outside the hotel’s double doors just as she was driving away. As he watched, he saw a black Mercedes-Benz sedan pull from a side street near the hotel and begin to follow her.

  Storm recognized the red, white, and blue license tag. It was a diplomatic plate.

  Hurrying back to his suite, he used his portable computer to log on to the Internet. Diplomatic plates contained a two-letter code that identified which country had been issued the plate by the U.S. State Department. Periodically, the code letters were changed and reassigned. GB was never used on tags from Great Britain and IS was never used for Israel, because that would make it too easy for potential enemies to identify the car’s occupants.

  Storm had seen the letters YR on the plate of the Mercedes following Showers. Within seconds, he’d broken the code.

  What had Jedidiah Jones gotten him into? Why would a diplomatic car from the Russian embassy be tailing Special Agent Showers?

  Chapter Five

  The hotel phone in Storm’s suite woke him from an alcohol-induced slumber. Several jigger-sized whiskey bottles pillaged from the hotel’s minibar littered the nightstand. He’d stayed up late trolling for information on the encrypted computer network that the CIA and other federal intelligence services could access via the Internet. His searches had led him to several clues. But what he’d uncovered remained disjoined pieces of a puzzle that still needed to be assembled.

  At around 3 A.M., Storm had gone to bed, but he’d found it difficult to sleep. He’d known why. It wasn’t the kidnapping. There were two reasons, and both had to do with his return to Washington, D.C. Clara Strike and Tangiers. Sometimes only Jack Daniel’s could help a man black out his past.

  A woman’s voice on the telephone line said, “Senator Windslow is calling.”

  Storm checked the clock
next to the king-sized bed. It was a few minutes after 6 A.M. His head was throbbing. The next voice he heard was Windslow’s. “Those bastards left me another note—this one at my house.”

  “Did they send anything else?”

  “No teeth or body parts, if that is what you’re asking. But they raised their ransom demand.”

  “How much?”

  “Six million! I’m at my house in Great Falls. Get out here now!”

  Storm jotted down the address and asked, “Have you called Agent Showers?”

  The question was met with silence. Finally, Windslow said, “I don’t want her or the FBI involved. I’ll explain when you get here. Don’t call her, that’s an order.”

  An order? That was something Storm would need to clear up with Windslow. Only Jones gave him orders, not a politician.

  Storm went downstairs to claim his rental car. The valet brought him a white Ford Taurus. It was not what spies in movies used, but it was perfect for blending in around Washington and its suburbs. He drove to Constitution Avenue, turned right, crossed the Potomac River, and headed north on the George Washington Parkway until he reached the Capital Beltway, a major highway that encircled the city. Exiting west onto the beltway, he went farther into Virginia. It took him another ten minutes to reach Great Falls, a heavily wooded, rolling suburb dotted with multimillion-dollar Colonial estates. He assumed he was being tracked electronically—if not by the CIA then by the FBI. There was probably a bug planted somewhere in the Taurus, or they were using the cell phone that Jones had given him. At this stage, he didn’t care.

  Senator Windslow’s driveway was barred by an ornate, monogrammed iron gate. Storm pushed a button on a speaker mounted at the driveway entrance, and when the gates swung open, he drove along a circular driveway bordered by a carefully manicured lawn. An older black maid answered the front door and escorted Storm into the grand foyer, which had an imported Italian marble floor and a massive Versailles chandelier made of crystal and oxidized brass. Rising directly in front of him was an elaborate double staircase. A portrait was hung next to the first step on each side. One painting was of Senator Windslow and the other was of Gloria Windslow. Because each painting was hanging next to the first step, it gave the impression that the senator used one flight of stairs and his wife the other. The artist, Storm noted, had been shrewd enough to recognize that his patrons placed a higher value on flattery than realism. Both of the Windslows looked like British royalty.

  Senator Windslow appeared in a dark blue nylon workout suit with a curled up towel resting on his shoulders and his forehead beaded with sweat.

  “I ride my stationary bike for an hour every morning,” he explained. “Gives me a chance to exercise while I read the papers and watch the news.”

  Storm followed him through a side door into a wood-paneled study where the maid had placed a pot of coffee and two mugs on a table edged by three leather chairs. They matched the brown leather chairs in Windslow’s office. Storm spotted another pair of Longhorn steer horns mounted on the wall, just like the ones that he’d seen on Capitol Hill. Obviously, the senator’s decorating taste was the same whether he was at home or work.

  “Hattie, our housekeeper, fetches me the newspapers each morning from the box at our gates while I’m exercising,” Windslow said, as he poured himself coffee and took a seat. He nodded at Storm, indicating that he could pour himself a cup, too, if he wished. “This morning,” Windslow said, “Hattie found this at the gate.”

  Windslow nodded toward an opened manila envelope on the coffee table, along with a pair of yellow rubber gloves.

  “Has anyone checked the note for prints?” Storm asked.

  “No. Put on those gloves there before you handle it. I had Hattie get them from the kitchen.”

  Storm pulled on the gloves. They were tight. He removed the letter and asked, “Does your wife know about this new demand?”

  Windslow shook his head. “She’s still sleeping upstairs in her bedroom.”

  Her bedroom. He hadn’t said “our bedroom.” Apparently using different staircases was not the only thing that the couple did separately.

  This new note—the third from the kidnappers—looked much like the first ransom demand. It was handwritten in block letters and contained specific instructions.

  “GO TO YOUR SAFETY DEPOSIT BOX AND REMOVE THE SIX MILLION YOU HAVE STASHED THERE.”

  While Storm was reading, the senator said, “My stepson must have told them about the six million. I should’ve known that little bastard couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Probably told them about it when they were jerking out his front teeth.”

  Six million dollars in a safety deposit box. Storm marveled at the way the senator had just let that drop, as if having that kind of money just sitting around in cash was the most natural thing in the world. Showers had been right about Windslow. He was indeed on the take. No wonder the Great Man had wanted to see him alone. Seeing as things were just starting to get interesting, Storm decided to play along.

  “Why’d your stepson know about it?”

  “The box is rented under his name.”

  The note instructed the senator to remove the six million from the bank before closing time today. It was to be divided into four equal piles of $1.5 million, and each pile was to be put into a gym bag. At exactly 6 P.M., the kidnappers would call Samantha Toppers on her cell phone with instructions on where to deliver the bags. She would need a car because the bags would be dropped at different locations around Washington, D.C. If the FBI attempted to monitor the deliveries or to intervene, the kidnappers would kill Matthew Dull.

  Jabbing his bony finger at the ransom demand, Windslow said, “Make sure you read that last line carefully!”

  “HAVE STEVE MASON DRIVE SAMANTHA TOPPERS TO THE BANK AND ON THE DELIVERIES TONIGHT.”

  “How in the hell do the kidnappers know about you?” Windslow asked in an accusatory voice, “and why do they want you driving my future daughter-in-law around with my six million in cash?”

  Storm had to admit it was an interesting question. Clearly there was a leak, an informant, tipping off the kidnappers. But Storm didn’t like Windslow’s tone. The senator might have gotten away with bullying his way over others, but not Storm.

  “I’ve got a few questions of my own,” Storm replied, ignoring Windslow’s question. “Why don’t you want the FBI to know about this note?”

  The senator replied, “Because that six million is what we call 'walking around money’ in politics. Texas is a big state. Lots of people have their hands out come election time. I don’t think Agent Showers or the Justice Department would understand.”

  “Neither would the IRS,” Storm said. “It’s bribe money.”

  “C’mon, son. Jedidiah told me you had street smarts. How do you think campaigns are run? I use that cash to grease a few palms. It’s no big deal. It’s expected.”

  “I’m not talking about greasing palms in Texas,” Storm replied. “I’m talking about your palms getting greased.”

  A flash of anger washed over Windslow’s face. No one talked to him like this. But he kept his temper in check. “Where that money came from is none of your goddamn business,” he said. “You’re not here to investigate me. Look, what choice do I have? The kidnappers are demanding six million or they’re going to kill my stepson. I can’t go to the FBI because the six million is off-the-books income. I need you to do this for me. I need you to do it without telling the FBI.”

  Having carefully returned the ransom note to its envelope, Storm removed the rubber gloves and said, “The kidnappers know where you live.”

  Windslow said, “Everyone knows where I live. It’s no goddamn secret.”

  “The kidnappers know you’ve got six million in cash in a safety deposit box and you can’t tell the FBI about it.”

  “Yeah, and they also know about you, Mr. Steve Mason, or whatever your real name is.”

  “They seem to know an awful lot.”

  “We got
a leaky faucet,” Windslow said.

  “Any idea who?”

  “No. I’ve been going over names since the note arrived.”

  “How about Samantha Toppers?”

  “Samantha?” Windslow repeated, breaking into a toothy grin. “That girl’s bra size is twice her IQ. She’s not smart enough to be involved in this. Where would she find four men to kidnap Matthew? Kidnappers don’t advertise on craigslist. Besides, she’s a trust fund baby. She’s got no need for my money.”

  “My experience has been that the richer you are, the more you want. The kidnappers have asked her to deliver the ransom twice now. Why her?”

  “She loves Matthew and she isn’t going to take my money and disappear. I told you, she’s loaded. Her parents died in an accident and left her millions. Besides, she’s not exactly a threat to them since she’s so puny. ”

  “Could she and your stepson have dreamed up this entire scheme?” Storm asked. He watched Windslow’s face for a reaction. Surprise. Anger. Anything. But there was nothing, and that suggested the senator had already considered the idea.

  “Matthew is too vain to let someone pull out his four front teeth,” Windslow said. “Also, the safety deposit box is in his name, and he knows I can’t complain in public if that cash vanishes. He could have gone in and taken it without faking his own kidnapping.”

  “What about your congressional staff? A disgruntled employee, maybe?”

  “Haven’t fired anyone in years, and only a couple of them know Matthew is missing.”

  “That leaves only two other people who could’ve tipped off the kidnappers about my arrival last night,” Storm said. “You and your wife.”

  Windslow smirked. “Why would I kidnap my stepson and demand six million in cash—money that’s already mine.”

  “That narrows it down to your wife.”