The Red Syndrome (46 page)

"We're not ruling out anything," said Brian. "Do you have anything to
support your story, other than your word?"

"Yes, the message I sent Lan regarding Baird Black, aka Robert
Meadway."

"We saw that. We checked the names; neither exist in our database.
Maybe you sent the message after Laura refused your offer to work for
Zhukov, or maybe you just invented those names."

"It's insane. Why you are you automatically rejecting my evidence? It's
like you've already made up your minds that I've betrayed you. Does
Laura have anything to support her story?" I turned to David. "You know
my record. Even when I've taken some tactical shortcuts, I have never
taken ethical shortcuts! Can't you judge me by my record of integrity and
success?"

"I wish I could," said David. "But from what I hear and see, it doesn't
look good."

"Can anyone answer my question? How does Laura support her allegations, other than her word?"

"In fact she does have proof. She gave us papers she found in your room
connecting you with a deposit to an account in a French bank. We got
assistance from the French police and retrieved copies of the bank statement," said Hodson.

"Laura's framing me, to discredit my testimony against her. Can't you
see that?" I almost yelled.

"Frankly, we can't," said Hodson. "The evidence we have shows that
you have a one-million-dollar deposit in a bank account in southern
France. Do you want to explain that?"

He handed me a two-page document: a bank statement and a signature
card with my name on it for an account in Banque Nationale du
Provence, in Marseilles.

"See for yourself," he said, "There's only one deposit and no withdrawals. Available balance: one million dollars."

"Inherited money from your grandmother?" asked Eric.

"This isn't my bank account." I said decisively. "I never opened it, and
the money in the account isn't mine. Obviously, we're on to something
much bigger than Laura. She's in it with someone who put up a million
dollars to shut me down and lock me behind bars."

Hodson and David exchanged looks. I heard David say, "Dan, I think
you need a lawyer. A real good one."

I felt faint. "A lawyer? Why? I don't need a lawyer, I'm innocent and I
can prove it, although I don't have to."

"You're in trouble," said Hodson.

"Am I under arrest?"

"Not yet. Not if you tell us the truth."

"What truth? I've already told you the truth."

"Dan." David was almost apologetic. "I want to believe you. If it were
just Laura's statement, it could be explained as her way of settling some
score with you. But how do you explain the bank account?"

"Look for someone who wanted me out of commission so badly that
he not only arranged for my kidnapping but also framed me."

"Are you willing to confront Laura with your accusations?"

"Willing?" I asked bitterly, "I'm anxious. Where is the bitch?"

"No need to use foul language," remonstrated David. He looked at
Hodson again.

Hodson nodded and pressed the intercom. "Send Laura Higgins in."

The door opened and Laura walked in, greeting everyone with a smile
but ignoring me. She was dressed in a business suit and looked somber
and professional.

"Laura," said Hodson, "Dan denies all your accusations. In fact he is
telling us that you are the mole, and that you concocted the story about
him to distance yourself from any wrongdoing."

"Of course he said that," she said drily. "What else do you expect him
to say to cover his ass?"

"You're lying," I said in contempt.

Laura looked me in the eye. "You called me from France and asked me
to join you. Didn't you?"

"Yes, but for fun only."

"Fun? That's a new one. You told me that you had come across alarming
information on our case, but that it was so secret that you could not specify
over the phone why you needed me."

"That's bull," I said. "Besides, I call and you jump? Wouldn't you have
cleared it with Hodson, if such an invitation was connected to our
matter?"

"Yes, I must admit that I was surprised you didn't go through channels.
When I asked you why, you answered that there were leaks of security in
the organization, and until internal security discovered the source, you couldn't share the alarming information with anyone, including Hodson,
but you trusted me."

"So you're saying you believed that everyone in this room was a suspect?
Is that the level of your trust in your management?" I shot back.

"I didn't know what to think," countered Laura. "The task force assignment was my first. I didn't understand the inner politics, so I came to
meet you in France."

"I'm telling you that I asked you to come and have fun with me, or to
be more blunt have sex. You on the other hand had another agenda while
working for Zhukov and comrades, and maybe even for the Slaves of
Allah."

"How dare you!" she shouted. "Sex with you? I wouldn't in a million
years." She turned to the men around her. "Ever since I joined the task
force Dan has been trying to get into my pants. I rebuffed him. Maybe
that's why he's airing these ridiculous accusations about me, hoping to
distance himself from his own transgressions."

That was a low blow, an affront to my virility. But now there were more
important things on my mind. I confronted Laura with the details of our
encounter in my hotel room, the gun, the struggle, the video, and the
mace. She vehemently denied everything. "You're imagining things. I
guess the period you spent in captivity gave you enough time to concoct
these lies about me. It's not going to help you, you're a traitor, and I will
testify in court to make sure they lock you up forever."

Woman or no woman, I was so mad I thought of punching her in the
face. Hodson sensed what was going to happen and signaled his assistant
Lynn, who'd been standing by all this time, to take Laura out.

"Dan, obviously you're upset when confronted with the facts. Can't you
confess now, and we'll get it over with? You'll also feel better once you get
it off your chest."

"Confess? To what? To being horny? That I admit. Everything else she
said was a lie. This woman used and is using her obvious feminine
advantages to cloud your judgment. She certainly clouded mine, but not
anymore."

"Dan, let's stick to the facts, forget about accusations. Just look at the date of deposit into your bank account," said Hodson. "It was made two
days after your meeting with Zhukov. Can you explain that?"

"It's a frame. Everything that went on with Zhukov during the meeting
was on tape and monitored by Eric from the adjacent room," I pointed
out. "How could I have conspired with him?"

"At the end of the meeting Zhukov said his man would come to see you
with the money," Eric said blandly.

"Yes, the hundred thousand dollars I was instructed to ask for, as payment for my services."

"Did he ever come up with the money?"

"No. I never met any of them again. I was kidnapped three days later.
You know all this."

"Maybe he did return," said Eric. "Maybe he offered you a million dollars to be his mole inside the Justice Department and at the task force.
Maybe he told you to plant disinformation that would distance him from
charges of abetting terrorism. A million dollars is small change for
Zhukov, but not for you. Maybe you agreed, and went with him to the
bank to open the account. Maybe you also agreed to be `kidnapped,' to
make it look as if you were above suspicion. And then maybe you
returned to the bank during the time you said you were a prisoner, quietly withdrew the money, and worked for Zhukov from the inside?" concluded Eric.

"Dan, if you confess now, maybe I could get you a deal with the U.S.
Attorney's office. You'd serve eight to ten years and be a free man soon,"
said Hodson in a conciliatory voice. "But if you continue to deny it, and
you're convicted, it could mean twenty-five to life."

"This is absolutely false. I didn't betray my mission or my country. I was
framed, can't you see it? The money is not mine. I never opened that
account, I never agreed with Zhukov to be his spy; everything I did was
aboveboard. You've accused me falsely. You'd better start thinking of your
apology letters when the truth comes out. Are you going to file charges
against me?"

"That's a decision for the U.S. Attorney and the grand jury to make,"
said Hodson. "Get a lawyer."

"Dan, I must ask you not to leave town while the investigation is still
ongoing. You are also suspended from your duties at the Justice
Department," said Hodson.

"Dan, I'm sorry," said David Stone. "I never believed it would come to
this. I must ask you for your Department of Justice ID."

I put my laminated ID card with my picture on Hodson's desk. "This
is all wrong," I said in defiance.

I wasn't going to contact a lawyer. I knew I wasn't just in a little trouble
here, I was in a lot of trouble. But I would choose the battlefield, and it
would not be the courtroom with me as a defendant. Not yet, anyway.

I went home seething. I took Snap for a walk. I needed to clear my head,
to do some soul searching and planning. I called no one. I was sure I was
under surveillance and my phone was tapped. I knew the old trick: Let
the accused walk free when you don't have enough evidence to indict him.
Feeling off the hook, the truly guilty guys make the mistakes that bring
in the evidence that locks them up. Although I had nothing to hide, I
didn't even want to give them the satisfaction that I was seeking outside
advice. So I didn't call a lawyer, or even Benny. No one.

I must have walked an hour before I suddenly knew what I had to do.
To be stepped on, you have to be on the ground, and I wasn't there yet,
though I was close. I knew I was the only person who could prove them
wrong. True, as a lawyer I knew they had to prove my guilt beyond a reasonable doubt; I didn't have to prove my innocence. Still, the evidence
against me so far - although insufficient for conviction - was alarming.
Unless I worked fast, more of it would turn up. Whoever had gone to the
trouble of investing a million dollars to bring me down wouldn't stop
until he'd finished the job; until the stone over my virtual grave was too
heavy to lift.

I returned home with Snap. I left him food and water. "Be a good boy,"
I said as I hugged him. "Help is on the way." I packed a small bag with
enough clothes for three nights. I took two passports and five thousand
dollars I'd kept for a rainy day. The sun was out, dry and clear, but I felt
like I was drowning. Making sure I wasn't followed, I went to Canal Street and boarded the Chinatown bus to Boston, paying fifteen dollars
for the ride.

Once I reached Boston, I used old tactics to make sure I wasn't followed. From there I took a Greyhound bus to Montreal, a ride of about
six hours. I alternated between sleeping, being angry, plotting revenge,
and calculating how to prove everyone wrong. The seat next to me was
empty, so I rode in relative comfort.

When the bus stopped at the Canadian border a Canadian immigration officer came on board, checked the papers of two passengers, and
skipped the rest, including me. In Montreal I went directly to the airport and paid in cash for a ticket on an Air France flight to Marseilles,
using a genuine U.S. passport the Department of Justice had once
arranged for me with the cover name of Peter Wooten. If my movements were being monitored, a charge on my credit card for an airline
ticket would be flagged immediately. I banked on the assumption that
Hodson was unaware of my other passport, and therefore Peter
Wooten's name wouldn't show up on the alert list. I called my next-door
neighbor, told her I had to leave unexpectedly, and asked that she take
care of Snap for a few days. Whenever I could I returned the favor with
her cat. She assured me it'd be okay, and that she still had the spare key
to my apartment.

I arrived in Marseilles after a sleepless night, but once on the ground
there was no time to sleep. I shaved in the men's room at the airport and
took a cab to Banque National de Provence.

`Bonjour," said the teller. "How can I help you?" she added in English
when I showed her my American passport under my own name.

"I need to withdraw money from my account."

"What's your account number?" she asked.

"I don't remember. But it's under my name."

"Mr. Dan Gordon," she said after clicking on her keyboard; "I'm sorry,
your account is closed."

"Closed?" I said in feigned surprise; "I had a million dollars in that
account. Where's the money?"

"Let me call the manager." She retreated to a back office. Ten minutes
later she returned. "The manager will see you now."

I followed her into the manager's small office. He was a skinny man
perhaps in his early sixties with a manicured mustache and kind manners.
The nameplate on his desk read JEAN PAUL DASEAU.

"I'm attorney Dan Gordon, and I had a deposit of one million dollars
here. Now your teller says the account was closed. Where's the money?
I'm a trustee for that money." I showed him my passport.

"Mr. Gordon," the manager said calmly, looking at documents on his
desk, "perhaps you don't remember, but you gave a power of attorney to
Monsieur Robert Meadway, and under his orders we issued him a
cashier's check for one million dollars plus the accrued interest."

"I'm sorry, I must have forgotten it," I said with a show of relief. "May
I have for my records a copy of the signature card used to open the
account; the power of attorney; Mr. Robert Meadway's written instruction to prepare the cashier's check; and copies of both sides of the check,
which I presume was cashed? As a trustee, I must have written records
for everything that happens in the account." I paused, "On second
thought, will you please put the bank's stamp on the copies to authenticate them? As a trustee, I have to be very careful with other people's
money.