Whack Job (10 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“Witherspoon”

Thursday morning.

After breakfast in their room Otto and Steve walked to a nearby Habitat for Humanity thrift store. Using his credit card Otto bought pants, shirts, underwear and a nice set of BK running shoes with hardly any mileage. He wore a tan sport jacket over a black tee and new jeans. They arrived at FBI HQ at ten. The receptionist and wand operator waved them through without a check.

Otto and Steve went to their cubicle. Otto googled Fonzelle Armstrong. The CEO was believed to have died in the blaze. It was too early to determine what caused the fire or where it had started.

Otto googled Pawnee Grove.
Wikipedia
came up. “Founded in 1912 by Theodore Roosevelt and John D. Rockefeller, Pawnee Grove is an exclusive camp for movers and shakers occupying its own mountain top outside Estes Park, Colorado. Originally conceived as a weekend getaway and hunting lodge, over the years Pawnee Grove has been transformed into a social and business-networking event of far-reaching implications.

“As a measure of the club’s exclusivity, it is reported the waiting list for membership is from fifteen to twenty years. While a fast track, three-year membership process is possible, two current members must sponsor the prospective member. A non-refundable initiation fee of $25,000 (as of 2006) is required in addition to yearly membership dues. New members are allowed to prorate the initiation fee into annual payments until they reach the age of 55.

“Members may invite guests to the Grove although those guests are subject to a screening procedure. A guest’s first glimpse of the Grove is typically during the “Spring Jinks” in June, preceding the main July encampment. Pawnee Grove club members can schedule private use events at the Grove any time it isn’t being used for club activities. Its exact membership is a closely guarded secret.

“Pawnee Grove has come under criticism in recent years for its refusal to admit women.

“The Grove has long served as a launching pad for ideas. Although no records are available, attendees claim that everything from the internet to the rail gun was discussed at Pawnee Grove years before they became reality.

“Emil Witherspoon has been camp director since 1972. He lives on the property year-round with a skeleton staff. During peak season, the staff swells to thirty-five, all former military.” There was a link to Witherspoon, which Otto tapped. The photo showed a tall, taciturn man with jowls and a widow’s peak. It was taken in 2004 at Ronald Reagan’s funeral.

Otto returned to the main page and scrolled down. The single aerial photograph showed a cluster of tiny buildings next to an ovoid lake.

Otto returned to Witherspoon. Wikipedia: Born on April 14, 1941 in Cleveland, Ohio, Emil was the sixth of seven children… Served two years in the Army, graduated cum laude with a business degree from Princeton. Witherspoon joined the Chicago law firm Totleben and Bissette in 1965, became a partner two years later. He served on President Johnson’s Advisory Committee on Foreign Affairs. In 1972, the Pawnee Grove Institute offered him the directorship.

Witherspoon’s decision to abandon a promising law career baffled friends and family, but it must have been a good fit because he’d been with them ever since.

Or could it be, Otto thought, that as director of the Institute Witherspoon exercised far greater power than he would have as a lawyer?

By one p.m. Otto had established that fifteen of the victims, including Fonzell Armstrong, had visited Pawnee Grove over a span of twelve years. That left eighteen who appeared to have no connection to the think tank. However, two of the latter had contact with Grove attendees. One was the personal assistant of the head of a multi-national communications conglomerate. The other was a Hollywood lawyer whose client list included celebrities who had attended the Grove.

Whatever was causing the immolations was highly selective. Big shots only. No women. And now this tentative connection to an old boys’ club in the mountains.

Malik had never been to Pawnee Grove, but he had met with the American Secretary of State who worked closely with the Undersecretary of State who had attended the Grove in ‘08. Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon.

Otto began a new file. Former Undersecretary of State Norman Rushfield was the first name. At the top he wrote, “Carrier?”

The Grove was not on the net. The earliest confirmed SHC had occurred on Sep. 11, 2001. Because of other events it did not receive much press coverage.

Steve licked Otto’s pants.

“Don’t lick the pants, Steve.”

It was one-thirty. They needed a break. Otto locked his office, took Steve with him to the men’s room, then down the elevator out the front door and across the street to Humberto Uribe Park, a swatch of green rimmed by blue spruce with a playset and a sandbox at one end. A series of benches occupied the rim. Otto sat on a bench gazing at the gleaming mountains beneath the cerulean sky. On such a day it was difficult to fathom the nature of evil. Even for Otto.

They returned to the building. Otto stopped at Alvarez’ bullpen. The tech had on a pair of ear buds and watched a series of numbers scroll across his screen. Steve laid his snout on Alvarez’ leg.

“How’s it going?” Alvarez said, swiveling to face Otto and patting Steve on the head.

“Fine. Fifteen of the vics attended Pawnee Grove. You’ve heard of it?”

Alvarez nodded. “Up by Estes.”

“I need a vehicle.”

“Barnett will get you one. You have a driver’s license?”

Otto nodded. He went down the hall, let himself into his office and phoned Stella. Going straight to voice mail he asked her to call him back.

Two hours later he had written software that would locate similarities among the victims. All male, all over thirty-five, all successful. Seven Americans, three French, four Russians, five Chinese. Six each from Singapore, Australia, Taiwan, Canada, Brazil and Argentina. Nineteen whites, six blacks, seven Asians. One Aborigine.

When he looked at the clock, it was after five. Otto phoned Barnett about a vehicle.

“Sure,” the agent answered. “Come on down to the motor pool.”

***

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“Black Widow”

Wednesday evening.

When Hornbuckle saw White and his dog in the corridor, Hornbuckle’s first thought was,
He’s done it. That bastard Kleiser got in the house
.

When Hornbuckle realized it was not Kleiser but that aardvark from the Libyan goatfuck he was incredulous. Couldn’t they see the man was mental?

The first time Hornbuckle saw White, in a villa in Cairo, the veteran agent was mortified. White’s hair looked like a goddamned hippy’s and he had a diamond stud in one ear. In Hornbuckle’s opinion personal vanity had no place in the agency. Operatives were supposed to blend in, not stand out. White’s ear stud represented two years’ salary to the average Egyptian. It was a breach of protocol.

At the briefing White kept asking questions--about sand density and Operation Eagle Claw, the disastrous Carter era effort to rescue Iranian hostages.

Hornbuckle’s mission had been twofold: collect the laptop and insure that no other ops survived except Benson, who was in on it. In this he had failed due to White’s phenomenal luck. What happened to White was a freak occurrence and would never happen again no matter how many times you tried to recreate the circumstances.

Hornbuckle lost track of Hathaway and Benson in the melee. Control told him not to worry about Hathaway and Benson. That was already taken care of.

White’s debriefing and subsequent behavior were enough to render him harmless in Control’s eyes. White dropped out of sight with his disability pension and that was the end of it.

Or so Hornbuckle had thought. Now White was back like a hard drive you tried to dump in the municipal landfill. Darling’s whip-smart lawyer daughter Stella had no doubt used her influence to get White the job.

Love made you stupid. White might get results but he was a loose cannon. He could blow up in their faces at any minute. He was unpredictable. And this affected Hornbuckle’s assignment.

Unlike those stooges in Washington, Hornbuckle had compete faith in the utter incompetence of the U.S. intelligent establishment.

There were still men of vision scattered throughout the services. There were still patriots who vowed the U.S. would never slip militarily to anything less than
numero uno
. Men whose mild outward demeanor and ability to get along masked a deep love of American traditions and a commitment to insure U.S. military supremacy.

Military men. Under secretaries at State and Defense who had been there for years. Private contractors. These men had dealt with administration after administration, constantly adjusting their positions to ensure their longevity.

They called themselves
Kagemusha
--the Shadow Warriors after the Kurosawa film and they aggressively pursued the technology behind the SHCs.

Hornbuckle noticed White leaving the bar last night. Fine with Hornbuckle. An agent with no social skills was worthless.

Hornbuckle sat at his desk in the office he shared with three other agents (and this irked him no end--that they’d give White a private office) and read the memos coming in from all over the world; the latest NSC reports on computer security breaches, police reports of stolen credit cards and PIN numbers, the latest appalling figures from financial institutions on how their data banks had been hacked, online threats, the latest in viruses and malware.

Number One with a bullet was Alexi Grigorivich Kornilov:

Alexi Grigorivich Kornilov was indicted in the Southern District of New York on November 26, 2011, on one count of conspiracy to commit wire fraud and one count of conspiracy to commit money laundering. Kornilov was indicted for his alleged participation in a money-laundering scheme involving unauthorized access to the accounts of a major provider of investment services. Kornilov allegedly accessed compromised accounts and wire transferred funds out of these accounts to money mules in the United States. These mules were then responsible for transferring the money back to Kornilov. Between June of 2007 and August of 2007, Kornilov allegedly wired or attempted to wire over $350,000 from compromised accounts. He is believed to have ties to the Chechen terrorist group Black September, responsible for the 1994 Rome International Airport terrorist bombing in which sixteen people died, including four Americans.

Number two was Anonymous, a loose confederation of hackers with branches in every major country. Anonymous launched one successful attack on the Federal Reserve Board that resulted in shutting down the NYSE for six hours. They had hacked the Los Angeles, New York, and Chicago Police Departments.

Number four was Black Widow, aka Randall Kleiser. Kleiser had successfully tapped into Quickbird 3, the spy satellite network, and programmed it to transmit Weird Al Yankovic’s “Like a Surgeon” video over and over. It took Langley twelve hours to get him out. NSA feared Kleiser more than Tehran. Since the security breach eighteen months ago, Black Widow had kept a relatively low profile.

That wouldn’t last.

Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly. And a hacker has to hack. Hornbuckle knew Kleiser wanted nothing more than to break into a secure system--government or the banks--he was an equal opportunity hater and either tried to bring down their hard drive or install malware.

Kleiser had been born in Arvada, graduated Arvada HS in ‘04, spent two years at Denver Poly-Tech studying computer sciences. He should have been teaching. Dropped out ‘07, went underground, moved from place to place staying with sympathizers or other members of the group.

Kleiser was around. Hornbuckle could smell him. Hornbuckle had to get out in the field.

He had to know what White knew.

Kleiser was the key.

***

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“Kleiser”

Wednesday evening.

Barnett took Otto to the basement-parking garage where Otto signed for a black Denali with mags, spinners and twenty-two inch wheels that had been confiscated from a Jamaican-born money launderer who was now serving life in Florence. The Denali had tinted windows and a sound system that could trigger a seismic event.

“Billups wants a report Friday,” Barnett said.

Otto nodded, opening the door for Steve who leaped into the shotgun seat. Otto turned on the radio as they exited the garage. Gangsta rap scoured his brain like a belt sander. He used the seek feature to find KUVO the jazz station playing some old Philly Joe Jones. “Blues for Dracula.”

Otto drove from Stapleton to Schenk Ave. in Arvada where he found several blocks of trendy shops lined with upscale cars many sporting university symbols or stickers. The streets were chock-a-bloc with bicyclists, skaters and board punks weaving around nuisance pedestrians. Otto found a place at an angle to the curb and eased the big SUV in between a Subaru plastered with testaments to skiing and Mini-Cooper S painted like a Union Jack.

As Otto looked his car out of the corner of his eye, he registered a violent incident, fast movement and the smack of impact. He turned. A guy in a mullet and wife beater had just clotheslined a board punk skating by. The board punk lay on his ass all sticks and angles, pierced and inked, looking up in bewilderment. Mullet rounded on him prepared to kick ass.

Otto was no fan of board punks but he didn’t like bullies either. He fronted the mullet, who had him by three inches and sixty pounds. Up close, the man had little pig eyes set close and deep, illegible Celtic script inked on his bulging neck.
“You want to try that with me?” Otto said. Steve growled menacingly in a crouch, hair a stiff mohawk.

The mullet stared hard, saw something he didn’t like. His eyes fell. He walked away.

“Just havin’ a bad day is all,” he said over his shoulder.

Otto helped the punk to his feet. He retrieved his Hellboy-painted longboard.

“Thanks, man.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t ride on the sidewalk.”

The corner Full Throttle Coffee Bar offered free Wi-Fi. The bike rack out front was jammed with expensive mountain bikes. The joint’s open doors radiated steaming energy. Students flopped about on a wide-selection of mismatched furniture or sat at the numerous small square tables staring at laptops. With Steve by his side Otto stood in line behind three students. When his turn came Otto ordered a mocha java and two poppy seed muffins. He snagged a table in the corner and fed Steve one of the muffins.

He had come here on a whim. The last time Otto had visited Arvada was when Rocky Mountain HS had battled the Arvada Warriors for the State Class B High School Basketball Championship a lifetime ago.

Otto never went to high school reunions. He retained no close friends from childhood.

Otto brought out his laptop. For forty-five minutes he delved into victim files trying to find others who had some link to Pawnee Grove or any other common characteristic. He knew that commonality was not necessarily causality. He also knew how to gather evidence and build a case. He had learned that in high school in math and science.

He hit Drudge. Bad news. Fire at a popular nightclub in Los Angeles had killed sixty-five people including Schnauza Powa, the headliner. Among the dead and missing: Dash Karenga, star running back for the Los Angeles Rams.

He hit Stratfor, MMRI and a few others out of habit.

Steve pressed his muzzle against Otto’s leg. Otto looked down. Steve pointed. Otto looked up. A man standing at the espresso dispenser stared at him. Otto got a weird sense of
déjà vu
. It was like staring in a mirror. The man had a shaved skull and a diamond earring stud. He wore a Denver Nuggets hat, bill turned sideways.

The man brought his large brown ceramic cup over to the table. He wore a backpack, blue jeans, Doc Martens and a Rage Against the Machine T-shirt. Tribal tats descended from his left shoulder to his wrist. Up close his eyes revealed a hidden grief. His smile was all mouth.

“Dude, how weird is this?”

“They say everybody has a doppelganger. Have a seat.” Otto closed his laptop and put it on his lap.

Otto stuck out his hand. “Otto.”

The dude flopped, bopped and clasped. “Randy.”

“Randy Kleiser.”

Kleiser turned white.

“Relax. We’re cool.”

Kleiser leaned forward and lowered his voice. He seemed a little jumpy. “How do you know who I am?”

Otto leaned forward. “I’m a federal agent. Relax. I’m not going to arrest you.”

Kleiser looked startled.

“A G- man. I sit down with a fucking G-man. Have you been following me?”

“No. Sheer coincidence.” Otto held both his hands up. “I’m not phoning anyone. I’m not recording. I’m sipping coffee and cruising S&M sites.”

“Well are you going to take me in?”

“No. I told you.”

Kleiser eased out of his backpack and set it on the ground between his knees. “How come?”

“Are you as good as they say?”

“You want Scarlett Johansen’s private e-mail? Want to know how much Nic Cage has left in the bank? Not a fuck of a lot.”

“Are you trying to crash the defense network?”

“No, G-man. Right now I gotta make some shekels.”

“Here’s the deal. I might need your help. How can I reach you?”

“I ain’t no snitch, G-man.”

“No snitching. I’m talking about your technical expertise.”

Kleiser shrugged. “Leave word for me at Time Warp in Boulder. It’s a comic store.”

Otto wrote the phone number of his new phone down on a slip of paper and slid it across the table. “Be a lot easier if you just give me a phone number.”

“Dude, I get a new phone every day. How’m I gonna know the number tomorrow?”

“Randall, we never met,
capice
? Tell no one.”

Kleiser nodded.

“You renege, or don’t get back to me in twenty-four hours I’m coming after you. Steve. Take a whiff.”

The big dog parked his snout in Kleiser’s crotch and sniffed. Steve licked Kleiser’s pants.

“See?” Otto said, scratching Steve’s ears. “He’s got your scent.”

Kleiser’s face twisted. “Miracle this dog can smell anything over his own stink.”

Otto leaned down to sniff Steve’s fur. “Really?”

Kleiser scooped up his backpack and stood. “See you around.”

***