The Red Syndrome (47 page)

The manager nodded toward the teller. "Please make the copies he
needs, and stamp them. I'll add my signature to authenticate." Twenty
minutes later I was out in the street with the documents. I went to a copy
center and made two additional copies. I mailed one set to my home in
New York and one set to my sister in Israel, adding a note: "Please keep
these for me." I faxed a copy to Robert Hodson in New York with the
note "FYI." Nothing else. I faxed another copy to David Stone in
Washington. "David, I trust you and I trust you'd know how to examine
these documents and reach the correct conclusion. Robert Meadway's
name appeared in the info I gave Lan before I was kidnapped. Thanks for
helping me out. Dan." I kept the original copies.

My next stop was the Excelsior Hotel, where I went to the reception
desk.

"Bonjour. I was a guest here a few months ago, and I'm afraid I left the
charger for my laptop in the room."

"What room were you in?" asked the pretty receptionist.

"Five eighteen."

"Can I see your passport, please?"

I showed her my Dan Gordon U.S. passport.

She looked at her computer. "I'm sorry, it seems that we never had you
as a guest, Mr. Gordon. You must have stayed at another hotel."

I knew I'd stayed there as Neil McMillan. But I had no ID under that
name. Those documents were taken by my captors. "Well, I'm certain I
was staying here, but come to think of it, my hotel reservation was made
by my friend Neil McMillan. Perhaps the record erroneously shows him
as a guest? Look, it's only a twenty-dollar charger, but the manufacturer
discontinued this model. I have to find it or I can't use my computer."

She relented. "Why don't you talk to housekeeping? Maybe they found
Dit.

"Where are they?"

"On the lower floor," she said and directed me to the stairwell.

There was only one elderly woman in housekeeping. "A few months
ago, I stayed in room five eighteen," I said with a smile. "I think I left
behind the TV a charger for my laptop computer. Could you please come
with me to the room so I can retrieve it?" I slipped a twenty-euro bill into
her hand.

"Usually we take all the things guests leave behind to our lost-andfound department," she said.

"I know, but in this case it may be different because I plugged it into
the wall behind the TV. That's not a place chambermaids usually look."

She checked the computer. "Okay, that room is vacant. Please follow
me.

We took the elevator to the fifth floor. She opened the room with her
master key. My heart was pounding. I went straight to the TV and
checked behind the set. It was still there: the recorder and my proof.
`Merci," I told the housekeeper. "I found it." I wanted to jump up and
down for joy, but I kept my cool. I left the hotel and climbed into a cab without even knowing where I was going. I was clasping the recorder as
if it were treasure. I needed to make a copy. But where? After consulting
a classified directory at a nearby bistro, I had the driver drop me off at a
studio that turned out to be a modeling agency. There were ten or twelve
skinny teenage girls in the reception area, all either overdressed or underdressed. I asked the receptionist if I could see the manager, and explained
that I wanted to copy a video feed onto a DVD.

"Of course, monsieur, why don't you leave it here and come back
tomorrow," the manager said. He was a young medium-built, darkskinned man, probably North African.

"I can't wait, and I must be present. I'll give you five hundred euros if
you do it now."

There was a spark of understanding in his eyes: "A woman is in the
video?"

"Yes," I said, truthfully enough. I followed him to a back studio, where
he hooked up the recorder to his desktop computer. The video showed
my room at the Excelsior, and there was Laura with me in her leading
role from Frame Your Opponent. It was all there. Even the audio was clear.
I had her dead to rights.

"Pretty lady," said the studio manager in appreciation, "but why was she
fighting you?"

Apparently he didn't understand English. "Lovers' quarrel," I said.

After a pause in the video, the recording continued briefly, showing me
sitting on the bed and talking to the anonymous caller who'd sent me to
the Saint-Victor Abbey to meet Henderson. "I think that's it," I said.

"Wait," said the manager. "My computer shows that there is more data
on the disk."

Probably just a still video of my room, I thought, but I didn't stop him.
My eyes widened when I saw the new video feed: Laura entering my
room with Baird Black, aka Robert Meadway.

They were searching the room, opening drawers and closets.

"Nothing here but his luggage," Black/Meadway said.

"It must be here," countered Laura. "He showed me on the handheld
monitor the video of me entering his room earlier. So there has to be a camera somewhere sending the feed to the handheld, or it could also be
recording independently. I must find it and get rid of it."

She looked up at the ceiling. "There's something on the smoke
detector. I think that's it."

Black/Meadway climbed onto the desk and retrieved the camera,
holding it near his eye and thereby giving me a close-up of his face. He
was good looking, the bastard.

"You can relax," he said; "it's just a camera. It's too small to include any
recording device. So since you already have his handheld monitor, you're
safe."

He gave the camera to Laura, who put it in her pocket or purse - I
couldn't tell, because the monitor at the studio went black. The sound
recording continued. "Okay," I heard Laura say; "I'll get rid of it as well.
You can tell your friend that we destroyed the evidence."

"Mr. Zhukov was very upset when I told him that you were captured
on a video. It took a lot of effort to dissuade him from whacking you."

Laura's voice sounded apologetic. "Baird, I kept my promise to you,
didn't I? Now I want you out of my life."

I heard the room door slam and an elevator door open. The recording
ended there.

"Are you a detective?" asked the manager. "Is he her lover?"

"Yes, I'm a private detective. Can I please have three copies of this
recording on DVDs?"

An hour later, I paid him five hundred euros, took the DVDs, and went
to the post office, mailing one copy to David Stone by FedEx and another
to my sister in Israel. I took the next flight out to New York.

The following morning I called Hodson. I'd needed a day to cool off and
plan ahead.

"Dan, I don't know what to say," he started. Should I let him eat his
words, or just get to the point?

"I guess David Stone gave you the DVD," I finally said, matter-offactly.

"He did, and I also saw the fax you sent with the bank records."

"And?"

"I'm glad you were able to pull this through so fast." He forgot to berate
me for leaving town in violation of his instructions.

"I need to see you and Eric," I said.

"He'll be here at three. Is that a good time?"

"Sure."

I called David Stone in DC. "Dan, I never believed them to begin
with," he said. Knowing David as well as I did, I knew he was being
truthful. I could only guess why he hadn't come to my defense at the
meeting.

"I'm meeting Hodson and Eric at three o'clock in New York," I said.
"You were present during my crucifixion, so perhaps you'd want to be
present during my resurrection."

"I'll be there."

At 3:07 P.M. I walked into Hodson's office. Eric Henderson, David
Stone, and Brian Day were also there.

I didn't waste time. "The only thing I can say is that I'm disappointed
that you gave even an iota of credibility to Laura's accusations."

"Dan, we were dealing with an accusation supported by what appeared
to be credible evidence," said Hodson. "Even you would have to concede
that the banking documents appeared genuine."

"Genuine? My foot! Couldn't you see that my signature on the signature card was forged? Didn't you see there was a power of attorney for the
account indicating that there was more than one person involved? Did
you made any effort to investigate that?"

"In fact, we didn't know there was a power of attorney; the French
police never sent it to us," said Hodson. "There was only the deposit slip
Laura gave us, followed by the bank statement and the signature card that
the French police gave us."

"And my forged signature on the deposit slip and the signature card?
Even a five-year-old could see it's not mine."

"The forensic lab is backlogged," said Hodson in an apologetic tone.
"Anyway, we didn't think the evidence was sufficient to indict or even to
arrest you. We did have our doubts."

"Your accusations didn't reflect any doubt," I said bitterly. "Did you
make any effort to trace the account where the French bank's check was
deposited?"

"Yes, the back of the cashier's check you faxed us shows it was
deposited into a Swiss bank account of a Liechtenstein trust. A request is
going out to the principality of Liechtenstein and to the Swiss government through INTERPOL."

"It will lead to Zhukov, I can assure you of that," I said, although I had
no proof, just a hunch.

"We think so, too, but let's wait for the responses from Liechtenstein
and Switzerland."

David handed me back my ID. "Dan, you are hereby reinstated. And
for the record, I'm glad it ended the way it did." I decided not to rub it
in. David's calm demeanor could restart me as if I were a computer.

"Give me the chain of events before you were kidnapped," David asked.

"I received several phone calls at my hotel. The first was from a guy
with a Russian accent telling me that the meeting with Zhukov would be
in Marseilles. He telephoned me again once they'd arrived in Marseilles,
and a meeting with Zhukov was set. Then there was another call from
Eric, as well as a subsequent message from him to come to the clinic. The
last call came the next day and purported to be a message from Mr.
Henderson. Since that message coincided with my previous agreement
with Eric to meet in a neutral location, I had no reason to suspect the
caller. When I went to the meeting, I was drugged and kidnapped. And
you know the rest."

A thought occurred to me. "What about Laura?"

"She was arrested this morning," said Hodson.

"Is she in the building?"

Hodson and David exchanged a look, and David nodded. "She is being
interrogated now."

"I want to see her reaction when confronted with hard evidence."

Hodson hesitated.

"Bob, I think Dan can be useful in the interrogation," said David.

"Okay," relented Hodson. We walked to the room adjoining the interrogation cell and sat behind the double mirror. Laura was sitting
next to a metal table, and an African American female agent in her
midthirties was interrogating. The room was similar to the one in which
Fazal had been interrogated, except for a twenty-seven-inch TV monitor
mounted on the wall seven feet above the floor. The screen was turned off.

We heard the agent continue with a line of questioning that must have
been going on for some time.

"You claim that you were blackmailed."

"Yes," said Laura.

"What were they trying to get from you?"

"Inside information on the task force."

"And if you refused?"

"They said that my elderly mother would be hurt."

"When did the blackmail start?"

"When I was investigating a fuel-smuggling case in Brooklyn. Baird
Black came to my office and tipped me off to a web of ambitious young
Eastern Europeans who were smuggling Russian women with forged
documents through JFK to work as prostitutes. I told my supervisor, and
an investigation commenced. We discovered that the information Baird
Black had given me was accurate. The ring members were arrested and
indicted."

"And then?" asked the interrogator.

"We started dating."

"Dating?"

"Yes, I came from Kansas to New York and had no friends or acquaintances, nothing. All I did was work. Baird was very nice to me. He complimented me, took me to dinners, sent me flowers, and bought me nice
presents."

"So he was buying your cooperation?" asked the interrogator.

"No!" Laura raised her voice. "It was a love affair."

"Tell me about your romance," asked the interrogator gently.

At the beginning of our relationship, I didn't suspect Baird of anything. But then I was approached by the blackmailers, and as time went
by, I started suspecting Baird as being the link to them."

"Why?"

"Because it was his idea that I ask to join the task force."

"How did he know there was a task force?"

"Oh, I told him that. When my department put the word out asking
for volunteers, I wondered whether I should. So I asked Baird. He was
my boyfriend, or so I thought, and the posting made it clear that long,
unpredictable hours would be required. Baird encouraged me to apply.
He was moving into his busy season in his flower-exporting company and
said he'd be busy during the coming months. So I did."

"And then what happened?"

"Soon I started getting phone calls threatening to kill my mother in her
nursing home in Kansas unless I became an informer."

"Why didn't you report the threats?

"I was afraid for my mother. She is so frail and vulnerable, I couldn't
imagine putting her at risk."

The investigator didn't buy that. "And as a trained federal agent, you
just believed the callers and yielded immediately? Besides, your mother
could have been given protection."

"I told you I felt I had no choice."

"I see," said the investigator. "Did they tell you exactly what information they wanted?"

"All the details about the investigation Dan Gordon was conducting
outside the U.S. They promised me they'd stop contacting me once the
task force case was over."