“Please figure this out fast,” the president said flatly. “We’re counting on you and your team. Do you have any details on the other matter?”
“Yes, I do. Senator Soller was intoxicated when he was killed in the automobile accident,” Grayson explained. “Toxicology tests confirmed that he had no business being behind the wheel of a car.”
“Were you able to pull the call?” Simpson asked.
“Yes,” Grayson confirmed. “His voice was slurred, and as he apologized to his wife, his tone seemed to turn increasingly dark. The analyst identified the sound of an engine accelerating in the background before he ended the call. We’re trying to confirm whether it was from his vehicle, but at this point we believe that to be the case.” She knew what they were thinking, and she had come to the same conclusion. “The call disconnected at almost the same time the phone’s signal disappeared. The police found the device smashed inside the car. It was ugly. All indications point to the senator taking his own life by driving off the bridge on MacArthur Drive. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been driving that fast. It’s a fair plunge all the way down to Cabin John Parkway, so that would be a good place to make sure you did the job. The police are going to speculate that it was an animal on the road.”
“And the Federal Reserve?” the president asked.
Grayson had been unnerved by what she’d found, knowing the impact this single attack would have on the United States.
“They’re in a complete panic. Bart Stapleton tried to call Soller several times this morning. He’ll quickly find out about his death. It sounds like they’ve lost nearly two trillion dollars from their foreign accounts so far.”
“Jesus,” Simpson said.
The president remained silent.
Grayson could sense the tension and added, “Chairman Stapleton has mentioned a call with you, Mr. President, in some of the communications we’ve intercepted. He stopped short of saying you were involved, but the death of the senator has him paranoid.”
“Mr. President,” Ivor Hood chimed in, “I’m not sure if this would help, but we did finally find Stapleton. He came in late last night from Portugal.”
“We’ll check with our sources over there,” President Cross said. “Let’s see if our friendly neighborhood cabal had a meeting. If they did, maybe that will help us figure out what’s happened to the money. It looks like our long forgotten communist pals have figured out how to hit us where it hurts. Shit, if they pull this off…”
“Mr. President,” Grayson said, “we’ve been monitoring the Fed very closely, considering the circumstances, and we do have some limited information.”
“Go ahead.”
“Someone from the Fed did initiate a transfer of sixty-seven billion dollars from Banque Suisse to Iraq’s central bank. It happened at six fourteen this morning, and almost immediately after that transaction every substantial bank account of theirs we know of also made a transfer of the same amount. A couple of them fired it off twice.” She paused for a moment to collect her thoughts. “We’ve just seen that one of the banks with a duplicate transfer tried to call for verification of the wire, and it was redirected to a number in Europe. We hope to have the conversation pulled from Red Hook to see what was said. We suspect they’ve hacked the phone system to pull this off and we’ll come to find the same situation with the other transfers.”
“How do you know the first transfer was legit?” When she didn’t immediately respond, Cross said, “Never mind, Cyndi, I don’t need to know. I’m sure you have your ways. Can we get the money back somehow?”
“I highly doubt it. I suspect they’ve moved the money several times by now, but the team is looking into it as we speak,” she said, and then her voice saddened. “Unfortunately, the one man who might have been able to help was killed recently.”
“Talk about timing,” the president lamented. “You’re probably right, they would have moved it too quickly. If this second attack goes through”—he paused and then blew out a deep breath—“I’m afraid it will make the Great Depression look like a night at the Four Seasons in Paris. Let’s hope Karl Marx wasn’t right about history repeating itself, and we don’t have the reincarnation of the Bolsheviks.”
Chapter 153
Trent Turner’s head swung back toward the sound of the gunshot. He was thankful not to hear the familiar sound of a bullet cutting through the air.
“Shit, who are they shooting at?” he asked.
They had just come to within earshot of the others when Manion said, “I don’t know, but that was a large-caliber rifle for sure. Lucky we didn’t run into him when we were down there.” He turned to Throaty, Jake Sanders, and Rudy Pagano. “We need to be more careful. Those Spetsnaz boys are deadly accurate behind the scope.”
“Does that increase the pucker factor?” Turner joked.
Rudy Pagano shook his head and laughed. “The only pucker I’ve seen in this crew was from that little beauty queen who had eyes for you.” His accent was Bronx to the core. “I’ll tell ya, Trent, I thought she was gonna cry when you didn’t return that little peck on the cheek.”
Turner shook his head in embarrassment. He hoped nobody had noticed, but all of these men had been trained to pick up the kind of details an average person would miss.
“Tough crowd here,” he said, amused with the banter. “You don’t waste any time busting balls, do you?”
Pagano smiled. He headed toward Jack Turner’s pickup truck and said, “Hey, you’re a friend of a friend of a friend. It’s like I’ve known you for years. We’re practically family.” He wore an infectious grin. “It only gets worse.”
Everyone burst out in hushed laughter.
Turner was beginning to enjoy having Pagano and Sanders around. A sense of humor was good for the tense moments before going into battle.
“I’m sure it does. I’ll be looking forward to that,” Turner said with a laugh.
Pagano gave him a sideways glance.
Turner smiled. “Seriously, I mean it. As far as the other subject goes”—he circled his index finger in the air to indicate the motley group of operatives—“the last thing she needs is to get mixed up in all of this.”
Turner was certain they had chewed through their fair share of relationships and had all come to the conclusion the job wasn’t conducive to romance.
“A little help?” Pagano said as he reached into the back of the pickup for the PMD II. “We need to get this thing up in the air so we can figure out if there are any other surprises waiting for us.”
The overhanging trees made it impossible to launch this larger version of the flying machine from the back of the vehicle.
Jack Turner was closest, so he went over to help.
“There’s a clearing we can launch it from over there,” he said as they pulled the portable drone out of the truck.
“I’ve got it now, Jack,” Pagano said with a wink after it had cleared the bed. The gesture obviously referred to his foot injury. “We wouldn’t want you to throw out your back too.”
Jack Turner shook his head with a smile and looked over to Sanders. “Is he always like this? We should charge admission.”
“Afraid so,” Sanders said. “Pretty soon you’ll want to pay him to shut the fuck up.”
The sudden rev of an engine commanded their attention. It was coming from the direction of the compound. The operatives quickly took cover and drew their weapons as the sound approached.
Trent Turner was closest to the vehicle when it careened around a curve in the fire road practically out of control. The driver’s head was ducked down so far, he could only make out the whirling jet-black ponytail and see a woman’s head from the eyes up. The Audi whisked by his location, and the driver slammed on its brakes just after it passed his uncle’s pickup truck.