Trust But Verify

  A man is usually more careful of his money

  than he is of his principles.

  —Ralph Waldo Emerson

  CHARACTERS

  THE PRINCIPALS

  Samantha Reid, Director of the White House Office of Homeland Security

  Brett Keating, Special Agent, FBI

  GOVERNMENT STAFF

  Homer Belford, Assistant Secretary of the Treasury for Financial Crimes Enforcement

  Ken Cosgrove, National Security Advisor

  Nori Hotta, FBI Field Agent

  Trevor Mason, Supervisor, Washington, D.C., FBI Field Office

  Angela Marconi, Deputy Director, Presidential Scheduling

  Philip Pickering, Secretary of the Treasury

  Jim Shilling, Principal Deputy to Samantha Reid

  Joan Tillman, Administrative Assistant to Samantha Reid

  Dominic “Dom” Turiano, Special Agent, FBI

  CIVILIANS

  Tripp Adams, Friend of Samantha Reid

  Eleanor Clay, Washington Real Estate Agent

  Joleen, Georgetown University Student

  Wilkinson, Friend of Samantha Reid

  RUSSIANS

  Vadim Baltiev, Oligarch

  Maksim “Misha” Baltiev, Vadim’s Brother and Business Partner

  Otto Baltiev, Vadim and Maksim’s Nephew

  Stas, Member of the Russian Mafia

  Lubov, Member of the Russian Mafia

  Alexander Tepanov, Officer of the Central Bank of Russia

  ONE

  SATURDAY EVENING;

  NAPLES, FLORIDA

  WHAT AM I DOING HERE?

  Samantha Reid fought the impulse to pull her cell out of her evening bag and check for any updates from the Situation Room. She felt anxious about slipping out of D.C. when there were so many threat scenarios crowding her inbox.

  Sure, senior officials were entitled to a little time off once in a while, and her boss had okayed this short weekend trip. But as director of the White House Office of Homeland Security, she felt guilty about leaving a stack of problems on her deputy’s desk.

  In spite of her apprehension, she had to smile when a valet opened the car door and she heard him mutter, “If she were any better looking, she’d need a bodyguard.”

  The invitation from Tripp Adams to fly down to Naples, Florida, to visit his parents and attend a charity ball had been a welcome, if unexpected, diversion after a particularly hectic week. She had been dating him off and on for a while, but his travel schedule coupled with her long hours and increased responsibilities meant they weren’t able to see each other often. Yet, now he wanted her to spend time with his folks. Did that mean he was finally getting serious? She had no idea.

  Tripp took her arm, and they followed his parents to the front entrance of the Ritz Carlton. Surrounded by mangroves and palm trees, the beige stone structure formed a U-shape with the tallest building in the center, flanked by low wings on either side, each topped with a tawny Spanish tile roof. Behind the wall to the right was a large ballroom.

  Samantha brushed a strand of long brown hair off her forehead as a warm breeze blew in from the gulf. But she couldn’t brush away her worries about the intel she and the national security advisor had received. A new deluge of arms had been delivered to militant groups by what she and the advisor suspected were Russian sellers. Not corrupt government officials, though there were plenty of those.

  She had been tracking a group of oligarchs who might be involved in the illicit and dangerous trade, and she knew there was a bevy of analysts back at the White House, Treasury, and CIA following the same threads. She sighed inwardly and resolved to check in with the Sit Room to get the latest when this event was over.

  When Samantha approached the door, a flash went off, and a reporter for the Neapolitan Section of the Naples Daily News shouted, “How are you enjoying Naples?”

  Another yelled, “Any national security problems down here, Ms. Reid?”

  “What about those arms dealers you’re tracking?” a TV news anchor inquired.

  Samantha and Tripp sidestepped the questions and ducked inside without making a comment. They were greeted by strands of a Cole Porter song, played by a musician seated at an ornate piano under crystal chandeliers, which bathed the coffered ceiling and paneled walls in a golden glow. Several volunteers directed the guests down a hallway to the dinner check-in tables.

  Tripp leaned toward her and asked, “Don’t you ever get tired of dealing with the media?”

  “I usually refer their questions to the press office, but we all get ambushed occasionally. There was a leak a while ago about our latest investigation, and my boss thought I should try to respond. I didn’t think there would be reporters here tonight, though.”

  Tripp’s mother stepped closer and said, “Oh, my dear, in Naples we try to get news coverage, especially for our charities. The more the merrier I’d say.” She appraised Samantha’s short, green, silk dress. “You look nice tonight, dear. That color matches your eyes.”

  “Thanks,” Samantha replied, giving the older woman a warm smile.

  “By the way, Mom,” Tripp interjected, “you’ve got a pretty good crowd here. What are they going to do with all the money from this dinner?”

  “Oh, we have so many projects in the Everglades. Saving all the creatures—that sort of thing.”

  “I think they should just gather up the alligators and make belts. They’d probably make more money that way,” Tripp whispered to Samantha. She chuckled and gave him a wry grin. She was starting to relax. This might be a pleasant weekend after all.

  Walking into the crowded ballroom lit by shimmering chandeliers and small candles on white tablecloths, she took a glass of chardonnay from a passing waiter and looked around the room. “This is amazing. Look at the orchid centerpieces, the votives, the dance floor. It’s just like the events they have in Washington. The only thing missing is the Marine Band.”

  Samantha noticed a group of people gathering around a tall man shaking hands with everyone in the circle. When she spotted several security guards standing at a discrete distance, she immediately recognized the governor.

  Tripp took her arm. “I hear those little chimes. I think we’re supposed to find our table. Oh, and I have something important I need to talk to you about when we’re seated.”

  TWO

  SATURDAY EVENING;

  NAPLES, FLORIDA

  THE YOUNG MAN ADJUSTED A hotel uniform jacket that was a shade too large for his thin frame. He was glad the catering manager had finally found one in the stockroom that fit him well enough. Blending in with the rest of the staff was crucial, and, thankfully, he looked the part. Though the others probably hadn’t used fake IDs to get their jobs.

  Finding the online application for a temporary hire for this event was a stroke of sheer luck. He had shown up, phony resume in hand, and talked his way into a wait staff position for one night only. The HR person was busy and seemed relieved to find someone she said was “presentable.” She had hurriedly checked off a few boxes and told him when and where to show up on the appointed night. She also promised to keep his resume on file for future events, but he knew that wouldn’t be necessary.

  He had never done anything like this before, and he was nervous. He knew he was being tested the way guys back home were tested during gang initiations. Straightening his tie again, he moved to the back of a line of servers and checked his watch. He still had time to find her and verify she was in the ballroom, just like the press reports said she would be.

  A few feet away, the pastry chef fussed with a torch he was using to burn the sugar atop the crème brûlée they would serve for dessert along with raspberries and miniature chocolate truffles.

  “Wh
at’s the matter with it?” the sous chef asked with a look of concern.

  “I don’t know. It keeps flaming out and cutting off.”

  “Well, hurry up and fix it.”

  There was a menacing tone in the sous chef’s voice as the pastry chef cursed the blow torch and concentrated on arranging the berries and little chocolates on the myriad plates along his counter. A dishwasher put a stack of towels down and stared at the torch. “Not working, right?”

  The wine steward stepped forward and shouted, “Circulate. Circulate. Offer the Sauvignon Blanc first then the Cabernet. Move. Move. You have your table assignments, but keep your eyes open for overlooked guests with empty wine glasses.”

  Keeping his eyes open was exactly what the young waiter intended to do. He pressed forward, grabbed two bottles, and entered the ballroom. His tables were between the kitchen door and the dance floor. He scrutinized the guests in that area.

  Ah, there you are.

  He quickly walked to her table and offered wine to those seated on the opposite side so that he could look across and be certain it was her. “Red or white?” he asked a distinguished looking gentleman.

  “Red please. Thank you,” the older man replied without looking up.

  The waiter poured a proper half glass. He paused and took a mental picture of the attractive, young woman with long, dark hair. He worked his way around the table, eventually standing just to her right. “Red or white?” When she didn’t respond, he repeated, “Red or white?”

  Finally, she paused mid-sentence, looked over her shoulder, and murmured, “Oh, sorry. White, please.”

  The waiter leaned toward her. He poured the wine into her glass, wishing he could simply slip poison into her drink instead of targeting an entire room. But he didn’t have any poison, and he couldn’t have known that he would be assigned to serve her table. Besides, his instructions were pretty specific: get rid of an enemy and test the components of this project for prospective use later.

  When he had filled her glass, she said, “Thank you,” in a lilting voice. He didn’t want to leave just yet. He wanted to study her for another moment.

  She started talking to the man next to her, who looked uncomfortable as he said, “I wanted to tell you that I’ve been transferred to our Dallas office.”

  “You’re leaving? When?” she asked, sounding upset.

  “I head out next week. Sorry, hon, but with my job on the road and your hours at the White House, we hardly ever see each other. But we can keep in touch.”

  The server took his now empty bottles back to the kitchen, put them into a crate, checked his watch, quietly slipped out a rear kitchen door, and headed to a maintenance area. He moved quickly, glancing back down the corridor every few seconds. No one else was around. He pulled on a pair of gloves he had stashed in his pocket, opened an electrical box, and reached inside to examine his handiwork. He set the timer and then slipped out the back exit.

  THREE

  SATURDAY EVENING;

  NAPLES, FLORIDA

  SAMANTHA GLANCED TO THE SIDE and saw a banquet manager holding the service doors open for a parade of waiters carrying dinner entrees. She heard someone inside the kitchen shout, “It’s burning again!” Craning her neck, she saw a chef drop a blow torch onto a set of towels that immediately ignited, sending flames shooting toward the ceiling. The fire rose higher. Suddenly, the blaring scream of an alarm sounded throughout the complex.

  “No, no, no!” the head chef screamed.

  The fire alarm continued to wail as the Adamses and their tablemates pointed toward the kitchen where layers of smoke filtered out through the swinging doors. An assistant manager raced to the band stand to grab a microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. Ladies and gentlemen.” His voice could barely be heard over the blaring siren and din in the room. “We have a small emergency in the kitchen. Nothing serious, I’m sure. If you could leave the room and walk toward the front of the hotel, the staff will escort you to a series of exits. I’m sure we will have everything back in order quite soon.”

  Mr. Adams took his wife’s arm, and Samantha saw him try to loosen his black tie. Then she heard him mumble, “Can we go home now?”

  Samantha stood up and then stopped to adjust the strap on one of her high heels.

  “C’mon, Samantha,” Tripp demanded, reaching for her hand to pull her along. “We need to get out of here.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m coming,” she said, feeling for the first time that she wanted to keep her hands to herself. Once outside, some of the guests stood under the portico while others moved down the driveway. The governor was hustled away by his security detail, and the valets were standing in a huddle, waiting to see if anyone would turn in a chit to get his car back.

  Samantha glanced around and heard a few people saying that it wasn’t bad being out in the lovely night air and that they hoped they wouldn’t have to leave the beautiful dinner. Then she thought about Tripp leaving. This time for good. Then again, since they rarely saw each other, what did she expect? She should have stayed in Washington this weekend after all.

  Suddenly, the fire alarm was drowned out by an explosion that shattered the side doors they had just used to leave the building. Part of a ballroom wall disintegrated right in front of them. Everyone started screaming. People grabbed loved ones and dragged them down the drive, away from the building. Samantha stood transfixed as Tripp tried to yank her back.

  Staring at the flames, the smoke, and the rubble, she trembled.

  Could this be a terrorist attack?

  She shook off Tripp’s grip and fumbled in her purse. Finally, she shouted, “I have to call this in.” With a shaking hand, she grabbed her phone and dialed the direct line to the NSC advisor. Using halting phrases and trying to think past the clamor all around her, she described the awful scene. After listening to her story, he promised to brief the FBI right away, but he also told her to try to gather more details and get back to him ASAP. As she clicked off, she heard fire engines in the distance, summoned by the initial alarm.

  She spotted two hotel security guards pushing employees out the front door. The young uniformed people were coughing. She ran toward them, still clutching her cell.

  “Samantha, come back!” Tripp yelled.

  She ignored him and rushed toward the front entrance. A guard held up his hand to stop her.

  “I’m Samantha Reid. White House. Homeland Security. Can you tell me what happened here?”

  “Don’t know yet, lady. Manager just said something about a gas explosion. Gotta get more people out.”

  “Out of the way,” another guard yelled.

  The first fire truck careened up the driveway. A dozen men jumped out, grabbed hoses, and ran toward the flames. The fire chief hurried to the entrance, pushing Samantha aside.

  “There might be casualties in the kitchen,” a guard shouted as an EMT crew jogged by carrying stretchers.

  Holding her hand over her mouth, trying to breathe through the smoke and soot, Samantha stared into the inferno. She dealt with terrorist threats and crises every day, and now she was in the center of one. And she, along with the others, could have been killed.

  FOUR

  MONDAY MORNING;

  SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

  “DURAK! STUPID IDIOT.” VADIM BALTIEV shouted, wiping the perspiration from his bald head with a cocktail napkin. He tossed back a shot of vodka, almost spilling the last of it on his black shirt. He waved his empty glass at the young man standing mute in front of him. “What were you thinking?”

  Otto paused for a long time, studying the floor.

  “Well?” Vadim asked. “Would you care to explain how you managed to destroy part of a landmark hotel and how our target lived to tell about it?”

  “I—the fire alarm went off before the timer, and they all . . .” Otto refused to look up.

  Vadim turned to his younger brother who was mixing another round at the bar in the corner of the Russian Hill pent
house. “Misha. What do we do with this moron?”

  “Relax,” the swarthy Maksim Baltiev said in a calming tone. “So somebody set off the fire alarm. The bomb didn’t do the job we needed, but it was more than just a weapon. Now we can do a better job next time. Whenever that is,” he spoke his last sentence under his breath. “And we also learned that timers aren’t the best triggers. We may have to go back to cell phones. It’s not Otto’s fault there was a fire in the kitchen. I’m just glad he got out clean.” He paused and turned to Otto. “Driving to Miami and flying back from there was smart.” Misha turned back to Vadim. “No one knows his real name or where he is now. We can use him again.”

  “We can use him again,” Vadim mimicked. “We may have to. But this nephew of ours better put in a winning performance next time.” He raised his arm. Otto cringed then relaxed when he saw Vadim simply checking the time on his new Rolex.

  Maksim interjected a more positive note. “Don’t forget the kid is great online. He’s the one who set up our Google Alert and Mention systems. Without those, we wouldn’t have known she’d be going to the Naples dinner. And we never would have seen the staff opening for that event. Think about it. He got past their HR people, played his role well, placed the C-4, set the timer—”

  “And then completely screwed it up.” Vadim raised his voice again.

  Maksim Baltiev was used to his older brother’s mood swings. Dealing with the man’s temper was a daily challenge. One he endured because Vadim was a genius when it came to making money.

  Being two of the nearly one hundred oligarchs in Russia, the brothers started out by snagging a state-owned coal company. They fired some workers, cut costs, sold it, and then migrated to the illicit arms business. Now they were desperate to maintain the wealth and status they had built.

  Glancing around the spacious penthouse with its cream carpets and black leather couches, Maksim was drawn to the floor-to-ceiling windows. They looked out onto the Golden Gate Bridge, now highlighted in the morning sun.