“Can you run through those again a little slower?” Bessolo asked. As a courtesy, the bank allowed him to review the ATM still frames. It saved him getting a warrant. Bessolo managed a hard-pressed “Please.” He was not used to being so polite, but the FBI investigator needed to put on a good face for the video editor. Besides, the twerp on the computer seemed clueless. He might as well be nice.
The disk contained a series of pictures, not continuous moving images. However, played in sequence, there was a degree of movement. The date/time stamp burned into the images helped narrow the search. He looked for daytime activity at Meyerson’s building. Sometimes the view was blocked by a customer who stood at the ATM machine. Other pictures showed a little more. Bessolo scanned for activity across the street that outwardly might seem normaclass="underline" a delivery truck, a courier, a plumber. The chances of seeing anyone were slim. The ATM camera only snapped an image when a customer inserted a card.
On Roarke’s insistence, Bessolo looked for frames starting from three days before the last e-mail went out. It was tedious work. But an hour into the job he shouted, “There! Behind that woman. Can you make out the van?”
The technician stared at the screen. “Not on this still. Let’s see if it’s in another frame.” He stepped through the next few frames, noting the time code burned into the upper left corner. “It’s lunchtime, so maybe we’ll get lucky.” Bessolo grunted. “Here we go.” He stopped at a frame with a customer turned to the side. For one shot, the camera had an unobstructed view of a white van. “Bingo.” A Time Warner logo was clearly visible.
Bessolo typed an e-mail into his Blackberry and simultaneously asked the young tech for a printout of the frame. When he was finished, he said, “More. Let’s see how long that van stayed there, and who gets in it.”
They got the easy part. The cable TV truck was partially visible through another twenty-three minutes of bank transactions. Then it was gone. They missed a shot of the driver. Quick for a cable visit, Bessolo thought. He sent another e-mail out.
“Can you do me a favor,” he asked as politely as he ever asked anything.
“I’ll try.”
“Now that I know what we’re looking for, see if this truck shows up any other day. Also try to spot anyone wearing a cable company uniform. I don’t want to assume that the only time he paid a visit was when he got a good parking space.”
“Cool,” the young operator said.
“Roy, you’re gonna love this.” Gimbrone caught Bessolo on the way to his office. They talked as they walked.
“Something already?” he asked.
“Yup,” Bessolo’s team member continued. He explained that it took four phone calls to Time Warner to get the information. Ultimately, it was an easy question to answer. “They don’t handle the block.”
Bessolo stopped in his tracks. “What do you mean?”
“There’s no way a Time Warner tech would be at Meyerson’s address. Their coverage ends a block away. Comcast has the lock on the block.”
“How do you know?” Bessolo asked.
“Her e-mail account. It’s through Comcast, remember?”
“Son of a bitch!” Bessolo exclaimed. He was mad at his own stupidity.
“Pardon?” Gimbrone asked.
“Roarke.”
“Come again?”
“That son of a bitch Roarke was right again.”
Bessolo sent Gimbrone back to the phones. “Make some calls for me. Is there any reason they’d dispatch a technician there? Ask whether a Time Warner employee has any reason to visit her building. A relative? A girlfriend? Hell, even a boyfriend? I don’t care what their orientation is. Just tell me if there’s any reason someone from Time Warner would be parked in front of her building. And get me the records of all their vans for the day. I want every vehicle accounted for between the hours of noon and two.”
“On it, chief,” Gimbrone said, scurrying down the hall.
Bessolo closed the door to his office and turned on CNN. He thought more clearly in a room filled with sound. It actually helped him focus.
Gimbrone’s simple finding suddenly changed everything. This might not be an investigation into a spy ring, at least not one involving Meyerson directly. By all accounts, Meyerson was framed as Roarke suggested. He re-ran the conversation with the Secret Service agent. Was it to draw attention to the president? Or to divert attention from something else? Both could be plausible. He decided to go online and read what was being reported.
Israel. O’Connell ran his hand over his chin and pondered the possibilities. Reports of Mossad infiltration into White House affairs had been around for years. He’d read a number of the stories, most notably a 1998 inquiry into alleged hacking of White House computers during intense negotiations on the Palestine peace process. Virtually undetectable chips were said to have been installed during the manufacture of the computer boards bound for the White House. The chips made it possible for outside eyes to tap into the data flow. At risk were communications between the president and senior staff in the National Security Council concerning the major issues. O’Connell learned the information may have been transferred to Tel Aviv as often as two or three times a week.
There was no doubt in O’Connell’s mind. The young woman’s penetration could be more explosive than imagined. His source sounded completely credible on the telephone and the subsequent noise out of the Capitol bore out the facts. Washington was abuzz over Lynn Meyerson.
Forget Roarke. I’ll go to Taylor.
“Hello, Louise, this is Michael O’Connell.” He swallowed hard. “At The Times in New York.”
“Of course, Mr. O’Connell.”
“So nice to hear from you again.”
“Michael. Please. Always Michael. Say, is the vice president available?”
The automatic armor went up. “No. He’s out of the office.”
“I’d like to talk to him.”
“Certainly. I’m sure he’d enjoy saying ‘hi’ to you again, Michael.”
“It’s actually not a social call.”
“Well then, can I tell him what it’s regarding?”
“Yes.” He had to say something. “I would like to confirm some information I received.”
“Oh? From?”
Swingle’s attempt to play detective didn’t go anywhere.
“I really do need to speak to him.” He turned his wrist to look at his watch. “I’m on a deadline.”
“Like always, Michael.”
He laughed, realizing that the excuse of a deadline paled in comparison to Taylor’s demands. “Do you think it would be possible?”
“Look, Michael, why don’t you just tell me what you need. Take the guesswork out of it.”
“Certainly, Louise. The Meyerson death.”
“Let me see what I can do, Michael.”
The Times reporter believed, on reputation alone, that Louise Swingle could produce Morgan Taylor out of a hat. But he didn’t know he’d have to wait longer than expected for his return call.
“I’ll be right here.”
“Okay, I know the flowers arrived,” Roarke said in a cheerful voice. “And…?”
Shannon Davis was on the other end of the phone. “Well, you have one smart lady.”
“I know that.”
“And she’s way too smart for you.”
“Thank you, Dr. Phil. But can you get to the punch line. I’m driving. And it’s too dangerous giving you the finger.”
Davis got to it. “Both phones are bugged. Office and home.” The FBI man explained the type of devices and their range. “The transmitter at her apartment can reach two to five miles — maybe more, since she’s high up on Beacon Hill. The one at work is even more troubling.”