The Wrong Man (Complete 3-Book International Thriller Box Set) Page 16

  “I give up.”

  “Saul Friedman’s name popped up in a New York Times article this morning. His name just jumped off the screen.”

  “Remind me who Saul Friedman is?”

  “He’s Professor of Jewish Studies at Columbia University. He came down to confirm that the pages were from the Aleppo Codex. He verified it and went home. But I never expected him to go public.”

  “What did the article say?”

  “Saul spilled the beans on the whole thing. He blabbed about how he just saw five previously missing pages from the Book of Genesis that were part of the Aleppo Codex. He gave his authoritative view that the text was not a hoax. What’s more, he said that the CIA was in possession of the pages.”

  “He said ‘the CIA’?”

  “Not only that. When asked how the CIA had obtained the codex pages, he responded that a CIA operative had recently returned from Aleppo.”

  “You told him that?”

  “I’m sure I didn’t. I certainly didn’t give him Dean’s name.”

  “Did Dean’s name appear in the article?”

  “No.”

  She eyed her guest suspiciously. “You have cause to expose Dean if you think he planted the bomb.”

  Rachel stared back, offended. “If I wanted to accuse him, I would have told the FBI.”

  “You gave away the fact that we have the codex.”

  “That was different. Saul’s a trusted friend. Discussing a book is not the same as exposing an agent.”

  Carla was beginning to think more clearly. Rachel may not have told the professor it was Dean who had obtained the codex, but the AIPAC spooks at Tyson’s Corner had overheard Rachel saying that Dean had gone to Aleppo.

  She sipped some coffee. “Maybe somebody at the New York Times is connected to AIPAC, and they put the pieces together that the codex was obtained by a CIA operative who came back from Aleppo.”

  She stared at Rachel, whose eyes told her that she understood. In both cases, though inadvertently, she had outed Dean.

  “Oh great.” Rachel sat back in her chair and expelled a loud breath. “It’s happening again.”

  “What?”

  “My grandmother is back from the dead.” She leaned forward to explain. “You see, Bubbe was a dear old lady who was born with one great talent. She could make anyone feel guilty.”

  “…and right now you’re feeling like scum.”

  Rachel nodded and swallowed hard. “I’ve sold out Dean Wells.”

  “At least it wasn’t intentional.” Carla set her mug down. “Hey. Let’s not mope around here all day. We’ve got a farmer’s market this morning. Let’s pick up some food for the weekend.”

  “Sure,” Rachel said without emotion. “I’m into organic.”

  “Great! I think they have some of that there.”

  Several minutes later, wearing a broad-brimmed hat and large sunglasses, Carla stepped outside. A police siren floated in the mild breeze. “Let’s avoid Lee Highway,” she said.

  They skirted the truck route and wandered past some historic brick houses. “We’re entering downtown Falls Church.”

  Rachel shielded her eyes from the sun. “Where does the name come from?”

  “Long before the country was founded, people took this road on their way from Alexandria to Great Falls in order to cross the Potomac. They would stop at a small Episcopal church located here, and eventually the church came to be known as The Falls Church.”

  “Is that church still around?”

  Carla pointed at a Gothic structure across the street. “You’re looking at it.”

  She went on to explain that despite the distance from Mount Vernon, George Washington passed by frequently and used the church on a regular basis, even becoming a deacon. The old structure was eventually outgrown and the current edifice was erected in its place. A spooky church graveyard still sat under the twisted limbs of ancient trees.

  They passed an old Matthew Brady photograph taken of a church that was used as a hospital during the Civil War.

  “Southern troops, I take it?” Rachel said.

  “This town changed hands several times as rebels attacked the District of Columbia and Grant chased the Confederates down to Richmond.”

  The route took them past a plantation-style house.

  “It seems so Southern to me,” Rachel said. “I’m sure the locals didn’t take kindly to General Grant.”

  “This town had split allegiances. Many were land speculators from the North. Others had lived here since the colonies.”

  “You sit right on the fault line.”

  “Kids still dig up bullets from old encampments.”

  “You know, I’ve lived in Maryland for five years, and I have no sense of the past.”

  Carla smiled. “Around here, people are marinated in it.”

  “And religion, too.” Rachel pointed out another church.

  “Oddly, we’re not overly pious.”

  Waves of immigrants moving into the community brought different faiths from Catholicism to Islam to spiritual healing.

  Who could guess that a young Yemeni-American imam at one of the local mosques would become the bin Laden of the Internet, directing 9/11 terrorists, a mass murderer at Fort Hood and a young Nigerian to pack his underwear with explosives on a flight to Detroit?

  She glanced at Rachel. She wouldn’t share that story with her.

  Chapter 37

  Dean awoke to Missy jumping onto his bed.

  He had been on the road so long that it took a minute to remember it was a lazy Saturday morning in McLean and he was in his townhouse.

  The next time he woke up, he would be on the shore of the Red Sea.

  Hungry, he headed for the kitchen.

  Missy stood by the front door, hoping to be let out. He nudged her aside with his foot and picked up the mail that had dropped in through the mail slot. One letter had the official seal of the Internal Revenue Service.

  His heart sped up. It could be his $134,000 refund. How could it have arrived so fast?

  Standing in the bright sunlight that streamed through the living room window, he opened the envelope. There was no check.

  He pulled out a letter on official stationery.

  “Dear Taxpayer,” the first line read, “You are being audited for your recent tax return.”

  “What?”

  He stumbled over Missy and eased into a chair.

  The letter went on to read, “Because of the grave nature of your potential fraud, you may face investigation for criminal violations of the tax code. For this reason, the Criminal Investigations Division has deemed you a flight risk and will subject you to electronic monitoring. An agent from the U.S. Treasury Department will come to your residence to install the necessary monitoring devices. You will also surrender your passport at that time.”

  The thumping in his chest was audible. He was consumed by outrage with an undercurrent of fear

  His hand shook so violently that he had to set the letter down to read the final sentence. “At that time, you will be placed under 24-hour house arrest.”

  Missy’s blue eyes stared into his face.

  He flashed back to the lonely evening earlier that week when he had been surprised by his tax preparer’s discovery of tens of thousands of dollars that he had overpaid. In retrospect, he should have dug into his records to verify the sum before signing the return.

  What was he supposed to do? Cancel his trip? He still needed to blackmail Omar and force him to reject al-Qaeda. He could sneak away that weekend and pretend he had never read the letter.

  But then he might be charged with tax evasion. He bit his lower lip. He might have to take that chance.

  But first he had to look into the charges.

  He skipped breakfast and went straight for his study to call his tax preparer.

  His most recent correspondence gave the phone number of Shmael & Cohen, which he tried.

  As it was Saturday, he expected to get a re
cording, but it was also tax season. Folks who prepared returns probably never got a full night’s sleep that time of the year.

  Herb Cohen answered the phone personally.

  After introducing himself, Dean said, “I need your help. I’m being audited.”

  “Auditing is normal, Dean. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “You prepared my taxes. Can’t you help me?”

  “Our job is to work with the information you provide us. We’re not responsible for verifying its accuracy. You are.”

  “Okay, listen. I get all that. But see, there were 134,000 more dollars in the return than I expected. I was short on time and I signed it.”

  “I’m pulling up your file, Dean. According to our records, we received your signed return on April 3rd and filed it that same day.”

  “So how can they be auditing me?”

  “It happens to a small percentage of the population.”

  “No. How can it be happening to me when I don’t even know what this $134,000 is based on?”

  “Clearly it set off an alarm bell.”

  “Listen,” Dean said. “I have all my paperwork here. I’ll be out of the country for the next week. I need to come down and talk with you today.”

  “If you must. This is April, Dean, and you’re not our only client. I can give you ten minutes at eleven o’clock.”

  “Fine.” He hung up.

  Missy was meowing in the kitchen.

  Dean glanced at his watch. “Sorry, girl.” He would be lucky if he made it to the tax preparers in time.

  Aside from his trip to Pimmit Hills the previous evening, he never ventured into Falls Church.

  He had visited Herb Cohen once, but his memory of the area was vague.

  He lifted his wrap-around sunglasses for a moment and glanced at the address. Park Street was off Lee Highway.

  He drove into the area and turned on Park. Both sides of the street were lined with parked cars. There was some sort of fair taking place.

  He circled around until he found a spot on the far side of the park.

  It was a farmer’s market, and he had to go through the crowd of people.

  He caught a whiff of crab cakes sizzling on a hotplate. The aroma of fine coffee drifted through the air. A pair of children walked by licking crepes that oozed with Nutella.

  He was hungry, but he couldn’t stop.

  Chapter 38

  FBI Special Agent Greg Ferguson didn’t let little things like weekends stand in the way of work. He was settled into his makeshift office in the CIA’s Personnel Security department where his keyboard was the only sound that morning.

  He felt like a spy within the spy agency. But there was no need to be secretive. The CIA knew why he was there.

  Because the CIA was forbidden by law to operate within the States, it was up to the FBI to run counterespionage operations within the country. Greg had worked on a few cases in New York where an al-Qaeda sleeper cell was discovered scouting out terrorism targets. He had also run an operation in Alabama where an American company was selling rocketry software to a Taiwanese front man for the Chinese. The success of that sting had garnered him the ultimate counterespionage post in the Bureau: catching double agents and moles in the CIA.

  But this work had an uncomfortable aspect. He had to catch someone who worked in the very headquarters in which he sat.

  Suddenly, the telephone broke his train of thought. It was Barry Wiseman from the inspector general’s office.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in synagogue?” Greg asked.

  “Don’t remind me. I’m expected to be called for an aliyah because of my nephew’s bar mitzvah. I’m supposed to be there right now.”

  “Yet you’re in the office.”

  “That’s because we found a match on the murder weapon in Syria.”

  “They found the murder weapon?”

  “It turns out the Syrians found the SIG service pistol that killed the bookshop owner in Aleppo. It was discarded in a fruit stand.”

  “Those are expensive guns.”

  “They did a forensics test and found that the bullet in the victim matches those fired from the pistol.”

  “So, whose pistol was it?”

  “It only had a serial number on it.”

  Greg sighed. Barry clearly was no gun expert. “All guns have serial numbers. That’s how guns are registered.”

  “But the Syrians didn’t have anything to match the serial number against. There’s no international list of weapons numbers. So, when I contacted them for crime scene evidence, they read off the serial number.”

  “And?”

  “It matches a concealed gun permit issued by Virginia to Dean Wells.”

  Greg leaned back and savored the moment. They had found the smoking gun.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll take it from here. Go and enjoy your Saturday.”

  “I’m going to call the inspector general first,” Barry said. “He has to know we found Dean’s gun at the crime scene. But I know what he’ll say, to both of us.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Keep this mum. He doesn’t want word to leave our little circle. This has to remain an agency affair.”

  “Sure,” Greg agreed. “No press.”

  His fingers were trembling as he dialed the Bureau. It was hard to keep the excitement out of his voice. “Get me the Criminal Investigative Division.”

  A moment later he was talking with the head of the criminal division at the FBI. “Put out a warrant for the arrest of one Dean Wells. He is currently believed to be in northern Virginia, but make sure that all metropolitan area airports are covered.”

  “I’ll put out an All Points Bulletin right away. Word will go out to local law enforcement as well as the FAA.”

  Greg hung up confident that the nation’s finest would get their man.

  Chapter 39

  Carla and Rachel turned down a residential street with a quirky mixture of Cape Cod houses, restored farmhouses, red brick ramblers, split-levels and little lanes leading off at odd angles.

  Parked cars were building up and Carla saw the flow of a colorful crowd ahead.

  “We’re coming up on City Hall,” she said. “Complete with a library and community center.”

  “Does it have a pool?” Rachel asked.

  Carla shook her head. “This is Virginia, girl. Land of private clubs.”

  Personally, she could float, but she wasn’t an accomplished swimmer.

  White-peaked tents gave the market a cramped, carnival atmosphere. She examined her friend. “Are you ready for this?”

  Rachel eyed the crowd, then the produce. “Strawberries!”

  The two were entering a makeup-free zone, where sandals and beads were the norm. One musician strummed a mandolin. Another strummed a guitar. The smell of crab cakes competed with crepes, soaps and candles. Every adult seemed to be attached to something: a cane, a child, a stroller.

  Rachel picked up a handful of flowers and held them up to her nose.

  Carla wished she had brought a camera.

  From milk to honey, there were plenty of organic products to entice Rachel. It was gratifying to see her on the mend. Shopping seemed the cure.

  Rachel befriended a woman in a shawl selling homemade baklava and other sweets.

  Listening to the two women talk reminded Carla of a Middle Eastern bazaar.

  Most people came for the food. As a psychologist, she came for the people.

  They shuffled along in couples and family groups. Most men tagged behind with the purchases. Some women were alone with small children, who spilled out of jogging strollers and backpacks. Perhaps the husbands were away on business or golf.

  There were the exceptions, too. Women couples, a lone man in biking clothes, kids selling brownies. One man brushed past in a hurry. All she saw of his unshaven face was a menacing pair of wrap-around glasses that reflected the scene. But from the rear, he looked like he had potential in the sack. He
r thoughts were wandering.

  The more they shopped, the more Carla’s stomach began to growl. She had an answer for that. They reached her favorite stall, a young French couple selling pastries. She ordered an almond croissant, with an apple turnover for dessert. Rachel went for a slice of zucchini bread.

  They headed for a picnic area under a quiet stand of oak trees. The air was fresh. Mosquitoes hadn’t bred yet. She was in heaven.

  But her thoughts returned to a persistent question.

  Rachel leaned over to get her attention. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Where is Sharm el-Sheikh?”

  Chapter 40

  Herb Cohen set a huge stack of returns aside and spoke in a gravelly voice. “I can’t help you, Dean. Deadline is in nine days and I have all this to plow through.”

  Dean was desperate. “Say you had time and I paid you.”

  Herb shook his head. “There still isn’t anything I can do. The IRS can ask me questions, but I’m not legally responsible for your problems. You’ll pay the penalties and face legal action.”

  “I can deal with penalties. But legal action?”

  Herb nodded. “Even if you pay up, Dean, it might end up in criminal court. You might start looking for a tax attorney.”

  Dean couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The day had begun with such promise and the expectation of a check for over a hundred thousand dollars. Instead, he was learning how to retain an attorney to fight off accusations of tax fraud.

  He tried to smile innocuously. “Do I look like a tax cheat to you?”

  Herb stood up and handed him a business card. “I’ve seen grandmothers thrown in jail.”

  Some help his CPA was. Dean left the building with a lawyer’s business card in hand.

  He was angry and hungry and could barely think straight. His route took him through the outdoor market, which gave him a chance to pick up some lunch.