Ultimate Betrayal (5 page)

“Piece of cake, Boss,” Giordano said.

“Be a pleasure,” said Cataldo.

MAY 7, 2008

CHAPTER 8

In 2003, David’s leg wound, which left him with chronic pain and a slight limp, earned him a medical discharge. Only three years after his discharge, he earned an undergraduate degree in business from Georgetown while he worked for a large security company that provided bodyguards for entertainers and corporate types.

After graduation, he partnered with Warren Masters, also an Army veteran with combat time in Afghanistan, to start their own company, Security Systems, Ltd. They provided personal security, but also entered the cyber and facility security consulting services arena. The company had grown rapidly after that, with offices in Bethesda, Los Angeles, and Zurich. It had armored Lincoln Towncars in all three locations, and had a long list of bank, oil and gas, and telecommunications clients.

On May 7, 2008, one of David’s clients, World Technologies, called to schedule an appointment for one of their employees, Carmen Long. Long was assigned to liaise with David’s company on the implementation of an IT security system to safeguard World Technologies’ electronic databases.

Just before she was due to arrive for their appointment, David’s assistant buzzed him.

“Mr. Hutchison with Explora Petroleum is on line two.”

“Hey, Frank,” David said into his receiver. “We still on for tomorrow?”

“Can we push it up to this evening? I’ve got to fly to Alaska tomorrow.”

“I’ve got an appointment with another client in a few minutes. How about around six?”

“That will work. We need to prep for the testimony our people will give to the Senate Select Committee on Thursday.”

“Warren’s taking the lead on that anyway. I’ll see if he can go over to your offices now and I’ll join him as soon as I finish up here.”

“Thanks, Dave. See you later.”

Although Warren could more than handle the Explora project, David liked to keep on top of work the company did for its major clients. He decided to change the meeting with the woman from World Technologies. He buzzed his assistant to ask her to take care of it, but she told him Ms. Long had already arrived. David told his assistant to send her in; he’d give her ten minutes and turn her over to one of the other executives. But when the woman entered his office, she’d taken his breath away.

Tall and slim, Carmen Long had million dollar legs and an athletic figure. Her dark-brown hair flashed red in the office’s lights. She had the glow of youth, complemented by sensuality.

Carmen had looked vaguely familiar to David, but he couldn’t quite dredge up why. The ten minutes he planned to give her turned into an hour and then he asked if she was hungry.

At dinner in an Italian restaurant, Carmen asked the waiter if they served
mineste
.

“How do you know about
mineste
?” David asked her. “Not too many non-Italians have ever heard about the stew.”

“Why do you think I’m not Italian?”

“Your name: Long.”

“I changed it from Alongi, my mother’s maiden name.”

“I used to work for a man who made
mineste
once a week for all his employees. He’d start it early in the morning, pop in the pigs’ feet around 2:00 p.m., and then we’d all feast on it after we closed down for the night.” David laughed. “And he always complained he hadn’t—”

“Added enough salt,” Carmen said.

“How do you know that? That’s exactly right.”

“David, it’s me, Carmela Bartolucci.”

At a loss for words, David sat back in his chair and just stared.

“I hope you’re not angry with me for not telling you earlier who I was.”

He slid forward and shook his head in wonder. “The last time I saw you was—”

“2001.”

“Why’d you change your name?”

“Too many skeletons associated with the Bartolucci name.”

That dinner was the first of many, and six months later they married.

PART II

PRESENT DAY

MARCH 30

CHAPTER 1

“Not too bad for a couple of rednecks from Iowa, eh, Rolf? Two good ole boys shootin’ the shit in the Oval Office.”

“No, Mr. President. Not bad at all.” Bishop smiled and thought what an understatement that was. He and the President could easily have wound up as stock boys in some giant warehouse back in bumfuck Iowa. Thank God for scholarships and government jobs. And for Swiss bankers. And for clever lawyers who knew how to launder huge quantities of cash.

The President dropped his country accent and adopted the lock-jawed speech pattern he’d picked up at Yale. “You’re probably wondering why I asked you here.” He didn’t wait for an answer. He rose from his chair and crossed the room to the buffet table, poured himself a cup of coffee, returned to the sitting area, and took the chair across from Bishop.

“I’ve got a problem over at Langley. The Deputy Director for Intelligence bought a big block of stock in a computer company.”

“Didn’t know that was illegal, Mr. President.”

“It sure as shit is when your agency signed a contract with that computer company. A contract that, when made public, will drive up the stock price.”

“I see the problem,” Bishop said. “What can I do to help?”

“You can say yes when I offer you the appointment to replace the crooked bastard.” He showed a mouth full of capped teeth and smiled at his boyhood buddy.

Bishop’s jaw dropped open. It wasn’t often he was caught off balance.

“You look a bit surprised, Rolf.”

“You’re full of surprises, Mr. President. I turn sixty this year. Thought I’d retire and go fishing.”

The President laughed. “Don’t play that country boy routine with me.” The President’s brow knitted and the muscles in his cheeks twitched. “Yes or no, Rolf. I’ve got to make a move before the word gets out about this bastard’s stock deal. I want the current deputy director to announce his retirement in time for the six o’clock news tonight. I’ll let the media know of your nomination tomorrow morning.”

“You sure about this?” Bishop asked.

“Rolf, you’re a bonafide American hero. Combat tour in Grenada. Silver Star and a Purple Heart. Shit, you lost a leg there. One tour in Iraq. Two tours in Afghanistan. Three trips to Kabul as my Special Emissary since you retired. The only military decorations you don’t have are the Legion of Merit and the Congressional Medal of Honor. Hell, you’ve even got a wooden leg. You’ve done more charitable work and raised more money for political campaigns than any ten men I know. Your record is squeaky-clean. The press loves you. When we release information about your nomination to fill the vacated position at CIA, it will become front-page news and be on all the television networks. I’ll look like a genius.”

Bishop tried to think of something momentous to say. He was hung up for a second on the President’s comment about his squeaky-clean record. But he shook off his momentary reservation and said, “Yes!”

MARCH 31

CHAPTER 2

Eric Carbajal’s neighbors in Belen, New Mexico looked up to him. He was a decorated former Army officer. He now ran his own construction company and always completed a job on time and within budget. He provided jobs for seven men from the community and paid his workers a fair wage.

As he did almost every night, before he drove home to Esmeralda and his five sons, Carbajal stopped at the
Cimarron Bar
. It was the last day of the month and he’d had to make payroll. He’d gone to the bank and borrowed against his line of credit. His loan officer had told him, with this advance, his line was tapped out. He’d had a sudden urge to puke.

How the hell had the money been taken down so quickly? A hundred thousand dollars! But he knew the answer. He’d used advances from the line of credit to play blackjack at the Indian-owned casino up the road. Why the hell did I ever start? He’d blown every dime the company had made over the last six months and gone into debt on top of it.

Carbajal drained his beer mug and turned on his bar stool, about to climb down. But he stopped, turned back to the bar, and stared up at the television mounted on the wall behind the bar. He thought he’d heard the news anchorman mention the name Rolf Bishop. Carbajal sat up straight and motioned to the bar tender. “Hey, Gillie,” he said, “how about turning up the sound?”

Carbajal hung on the newscaster’s every word. By the time the talking head finished and moved on to the next news item, a plan had already formed in Carbajal’s mind. He got Gillie’s attention, made a revolving motion with his finger, and mouthed the words, “One more.” He never drank more than one beer before he went home to his family. But today was an exception. He just might have found a way out of his financial troubles.

Rolf Bishop sighed and pushed away from the desk in his home office. He stood up, stretched, and bent over to rub his leg above the prosthesis. The damned thing hurt all the time. He sat back down and looked around. This was his favorite room—bookcases stuffed with first editions he’d collected over the years, Oriental carpets he’d acquired while stationed in the Middle East, and other memorabilia of his military assignments. And of course, there was his
ego wall
, lined with framed citations, a glass-covered case with his medals and ribbons, and photographs taken in the company of great men.

He’d had his nose buried in the White House briefing books all day, ever since his nomination to the CIA position had been announced early that morning. His back and neck hurt, his eyes ached, and he felt as though he might be catching a cold. But he had committed to learn everything in the binders. He already had power and influence derived from having more money than he could ever spend. Now he would have real power and influence that came with position. He allowed himself a momentary feeling of giddiness, then reclaimed his seat and started in on the next section:
U.S. Policy: Turkish/Kurdish Relations
.

He’d just about absorbed the essence of this section when his desk telephone rang. I’ll have to get an unlisted number, he thought. He lifted the receiver from the cradle. “Bishop!” he shouted.

“Colonel Bishop?”

“Who is this?”

The man on the other end of the line started to say something, but his voice cracked. Bishop heard him clear his throat and start again.

“Colonel, this is Eric Carbajal. Lieutenant Carbajal from the Special Logistical Support Detachment in Afghanistan. You remember me? I was in your unit there in 2003, 2004.”

Bishop remembered the name Carbajal. After all, the SLSD was a small unit, with only fourteen men assigned to it, besides himself. He couldn’t recollect a face to go with the name, however. But he couldn’t care less about some dumbshit former lieutenant. Why the hell was the idiot calling him?

“Yeah, Lieutenant, I remember you,” Bishop lied, while his eyes remained fixed on a page in the briefing book. “What can I do for you?”

The man cleared his throat again and then his voice seemed to gain strength. “It’s not what you can do for me, Colonel. It’s what I can do for you.”

The hairs on the back of Bishop’s neck tingled. He sensed trouble and immediately concentrated on the call. He pushed the book away.

“I see you’re about to go before the U.S. Senate for a confirmation hearing. From what I read, you’re a shoo-in. Big hero, wonderful reputation.”

Bishop continued to sit silently behind his desk. He instinctively suspected what was coming—he could hear it in the man’s voice. But he hoped he was wrong. He’d thought no one knew about what he and Campbell had been up to. And Campbell was long dead, thanks to Frank Zefferelli. He squeezed the receiver as if to crush it and felt a headache coming on.

“You still there, Colonel?” Carbajal asked.

“Yeah.”

“I wonder what would happen if my good friend, the Senator from New Mexico, found out about your side business in Afghanistan. Jeez, just imagine the scandal. You’d probably spend your golden years in a federal penitentiary.”

“What are you . . .?”

“Let’s not bullshit each other. Robert Campbell and I were good friends. Talked about buying a ranch together here in New Mexico. Robert was a good guy. I heard he got killed in New York. Bad break.”

Bishop snapped, “What are you after?”

“Now, now, Colonel, be patient. I wasn’t finished with my story.”

The man was becoming cocky. Bishop was now both pissed off and shook up.

“Old Robert and I would shoot the shit over beers in Afghanistan. One night we had a few drinks. Then we went and found ourselves a couple nurses. Boy, that was the life. But you know Robert couldn’t hold his liquor. Three, four beers or a couple scotches and he’d blab about his deepest secrets. That night, he told me all about your side business.”

Sonofabitch! Bishop thought. Sweat now poured off his forehead. His sports shirt stuck to his back and chest. “What the fuck do you want?”

Carbajal’s voice took on an ominous tone. “Let’s keep this cordial, Colonel. You know, I always figured you were just another soldier with an angle; I never begrudged you the money you made. But I’m a little stretched right now and I just learned you’re rolling in dough. What I want is two hundred thousand dollars. Cash. You deliver the money to me and I’ll keep my mouth shut. I give you my word on that. If I don’t have it in my hands by the end of business two days from now
. . . .”

APRIL 1

CHAPTER 3

Belen, New Mexico had more than its share of DWIs, assaults, burglaries, drug deals, and even murders. But the typical crime victim tended to be someone involved with the criminal netherworld. Set between the Manzano Mountains and Interstate 25, cheek to jowl with the Rio Grande River, Belen is a sleepy little community. It probably wouldn’t have had much criminal activity at all if it hadn’t found itself a half-hour’s drive south of Albuquerque, along the north-south arterial that started near the Mexican border and bisected the state—a natural conduit for drug trafficking. So, the town’s residents often heard about drug busts and drug-related violence. But they could still be surprised when a respected member of the business community became a crime victim. When word got out that someone had shot Eric Carbajal in the head while he sat in his pickup truck, the shock felt by members of the community was palpable.