Clearing the entire mansion took only five minutes of careful searching by twelve U.S. Marshals, and the assault was over. A New Jersey National Guard ordnance-disposal team from nearby Picatinny Arsenal had to come out to create a safe ingress path toward the mansion, but within minutes the cleanup was under way.
Hardcastle arrived about an hour after the raid was over. He admired the large, lumbering PAVE HAMMER hovering nearby. “Good to see you boys back on the job,” he said half-aloud to the ungainly hybrid aircraft — they belonged to the U.S. Navy now, but he’d always think of them as his. Hardcastle then turned to Deborah Harley, checked her TREASURY AGENT body armor, and said with a smile, “It’s good to see you too, Agent Harley. I should have known you were Secret Service. It would explain why you seemed to have the run of the White House, and how you seemed to have access to a lot more intelligence information than the average executive assistant.”
“Vice President Martindale hates Secret Service around him, so I’m less of a bodyguard and more assistant,” Harley said. They were given the all-clear by the Army ordnance- disposal units to reenter the mansion, and Harley began shrugging out of her body armor.
“Have you ID’d the bodies yet?” Hardcastle asked. “Was Cazaux here? Did you get him?”
“Yes, yes, and I think so,” Harley said. She led Hardcastle to a line of corpses outside the mansion, where U.S. Marshals were taking fingerprints and photos of the bodies for identification. “Hired gunners, ex- and retired GIs, a few known felons and mercenaries — Cazaux recruited only the best.” She kicked aside a sheet high enough for Hardcastle to see a mass of blood-caked hair and bloodied but recognizable womanly features. “One woman, might be a local — we’re putting a rush on her ID.”
Harley unzipped a black body bag with three strips of tape on it. The badly bullet-mutilated body of a tall, well- built man was inside — he had been hit several times by cannon fire from one of the CV-22s. “This looks like him, Admiral. One of the Navy flyboys got a little antsy and hit him with his Chain Gun. Based on my best description, I think that’s Henri Cazaux.”
“Fingerprints? Dental records?”
“We’ve already called the FBI,” Harley said. She noticed Hardcastle’s disappointed expression at having the FBI called in, and Harley added, “The Marshals have printed and photoed the bodies, but the FBI Pictures and Prints lab has the best gear to do a positive ID, Ian, and they can do it fast. The only other place to get Cazaux’s ID records is from the Belgian Army or from Interpol, since Cazaux’s never been a guest in an American prison. I know you and Judge Wilkes are having this thing with each other, but you want an iron-clad positive ID, and so you’re talking FBI. The Marshals are working on it, top priority. But I might be able to give you something for the Executive Committee or the White House.”
Harley checked a notebook retrieved from a camouflage field briefcase, then knelt next to the corpse: “Cazaux was supposed to have had paratrooper tattoos on both his left and right hand between the thumb and forefinger.” She picked up the grisly bullet-shattered hands and removed the thin Reactor gloves. One of the nearby Marshals had to turn away at the sight of the mutilated body, but Harley handled it as casually as if she were giving a baby a bath. “Here’s one tattoo on his left hand… and here’s a scar on his right hand from laser surgery. It looked like he was having the tattoos removed. They were apparently executing a well- rehearsed escape plan — we’ve found vehicles, disguises, even a little two-man helicopter stashed nearby.”
“Damn,” Colonel Marc Sheehan said in admiration. “You got him. You actually got Henri Cazaux!”
“I’m not celebrating until those fingerprints and dental records match,” Hardcastle said. “In the meantime I’ve got some information on the guy who called with information on Cazaux.”
“Compare notes with this gent,” Harley suggested. She stepped over to one of the Marshals taking notes over the bodies. “Admiral Hardcastle, meet Timothy Lassen, chief deputy U.S. Marshal from Sacramento. He’s been tracking the money from an aircraft transaction a few days ago. I radioed him about the raid. Tim, the Admiral’s got a name for you.”
The Marshal checked a notebook, and before Hardcastle had a chance to speak, said, “Ted Fell. Works for a Wall Street greaser named Harold Lake.”
“Jesus,” Hardcastle exclaimed. As fast as things were happening, Hardcastle thought, the Marshals and people like Deborah Harley were moving even faster. “How in the hell did you know, Deputy Lassen?”
“Good ol’-fashioned pure dumb luck,” Lassen admitted.
“Lake brokered several large aircraft deals for buyers all over the country. At first blush they all checked out — aerial fire-fighters, corporate planes, parts, that kind of thing. But one buyer didn’t know it was Lake who was brokering the deal, and he told me some stories about Lake — about how he was in debt up to his chin, about how he was sure to get caught in some money-laundering scheme someday. I checked further. Turns out Lake’s financial fortunes changed right after Cazaux’s attack on Memphis.” “Changed? I thought you said he was already in debt.”
“I did,” Lassen explained. “He was bankrupt, worse than bankrupt. But two days before the attack on Universal Express, Lake writes this complicated and outrageous stock option deal, in effect betting that Universal Express stock is going to drop in value, and I mean really drop — he wants to trade hundreds of thousands of shares of stock.”
“Lake had that kind of money just lying around?”
“You don’t need a lot of cash to do one of these options deals,” Lassen said. “Four or five million was enough to get the ball rolling.”
“Where could he get that kind of cash?”
“You won’t believe it,” Lassen said. “He borrows the money from McSorley, Brennan McSorley — the president of Universal Equity Services, with whom he used to do business — they had a falling-out some time back. Talk about balls — Lake makes a bet that Universal Equity stock is going to take a hit, using Universal’s money! It’s like betting the ‘Don’t Come’ line with your mother rolling the dice.
“Anyway, two days after Lake makes this option deal, Cazaux blows up Universal Express. Universal stock falls through the floor. Lake now owns all this stock for pennies on the dollar, and he turns right around and sells it when the stock recovers. Lake is now rolling in money — something like seventy million dollars’ worth.”
“Maybe I’d better open an account with this guy,” Harley said.
“Maybe not, Debbie,” Lassen said. “Lake is flush now, but instead of going back to stocks and bonds, he goes into aircraft leasing — big aircraft, cargo aircraft. One of the planes he buys is from this place in Atlanta, where those two FBI guys were killed in that hangar. Another one of his planes is shot down over Fort Worth. And guess what — one of the unexploded bombs recovered from the Foil; Worth bombing matches a military lot-number of several cluster bomb units stolen from a Nevada Navy arsenal several days prior.”
“Christ — Harold Lake and this Ted Fell are the bankers for Henri Cazaux?”
“It’s looking that way,” Lassen agreed. “But apparently Fell had a change of heart — I guess working with a psychopath like Cazaux will do that to a man, no matter how good the money is. So Harold Lake dropped a dime on Henri Cazaux, eh, Admiral?”