Washington Power Play, page 33
“We’re moving into the endgame,” Kelly said. “Here’s your chance to seal your immunity deal.”
“What do I have to do?” he asked.
“Lie,” said Kelly. “That shouldn’t be too hard for you.”
“That wasn’t justified,” Martin replied, raising his voice. “I’ve changed. I’ve come over to your side. I’m one of the good guys now.”
“Save the posturing and listen carefully. You’re going to make a call to your friend Cartwright. I’ll give you the script, and I’ll be standing next to you, gun in hand, to make sure you follow it. You make one tiny departure, and you’re on the way to jail. It’s real simple. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, here’s what you’re going to say.” Kelly handed Martin the written script. She had decided not to elaborate on what they hoped to achieve with this call to Cartwright, although Martin might be able to figure it out by himself. Still, she wanted to minimize the chance of him tipping off the general.
Fifteen minutes later, they were all set. With Kelly standing next to him, Martin placed the call on a landline in his house. Paul was listening in on an extension in the next room. If Martin tried to tip off Cartwright, Kelly would immediately grab the phone from his hand.
New York
Cartwright was alone in the back of a limo traveling from the St. Regis to the Waldorf for a campaign speech when his phone rang. He saw from caller the ID that it was Andrew Martin.
Cartwright asked the driver to slide up the glass partition separating him from the driver. Once it was raised, he answered the phone.
“Can you talk?” Martin sounded upset.
“Sure, go ahead.”
“I just came from a meeting with Arthur Larkin, the attorney general. Arthur and I have been good friends for a long time. Arthur told me the most incredible thing.”
“What’s that?” Cartwright asked.
“Braddock is out to get you and to destroy your campaign. He’s had the FBI come up with phony evidence that you’re a Chinese spy, and that the Chinese are paying you off.”
“You have to be kidding.”
“I wish I were.”
“What’s their supposed evidence?”
“Xiang from the Chinese embassy told them the envelopes you passed through me contained military secrets. And your pilot, Mallory, claims you met with Chinese spymaster Liu on your recent trip to Paris.”
Mallory’s perfidy infuriated Cartwright. He swallowed hard and said, “Mallory is lying.”
“And finally,” Martin continued, “they claim you have a ten million dollar account in a Trinidad bank with funds that came from a Chinese bank run by the People’s Liberation Army.”
“That’s total and utter bullshit.” Cartwright was shouting now. “Braddock must have directed his people to open the account and make it look like Chinese money.”
“They have your signature card.”
“They could have forged it.”
“The president has given the FBI an order to arrest you at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”
“Why is he waiting until tomorrow?” Cartwright asked.
“They want to make their case airtight and maximize publicity.”
“You don’t have to worry, Andrew. I’ll fight those bastards and their phony evidence every step of the way.”
“I’ll be right there with you, leading your defense.”
“Thanks. I know I can count on you.”
When he put down the phone, Cartwright replayed the conversation in his mind. He had to admit, it all made sense except for one thing: the bank account in Trinidad. Liu had never said anything about setting up a bank account for Cartwright, and the general would never have agreed to it. Not only was there great risk of it being discovered, but Cartwright wasn’t in this for the money. And he never had been, as he had repeatedly told Liu. Dickerson’s money went directly to Cartwright’s presidential campaign. Not a cent flowed to the general personally.
The Trinidad account, Cartwright decided, must have been set up by Braddock’s people to frame him. Here was another presidential campaign dirty trick like Watergate. Without it, they only had a circumstantial case.
Regardless of all that, Cartwright realized Braddock was still the president. He could commence espionage proceedings against Cartwright, which would be difficult to defend. He had no choice. Cartwright had to activate his escape plan.
He picked up his phone and called Dickerson. “I need your help.”
New Jersey
Kelly had to admit that Martin was convincing in the call with Cartwright. He had fulfilled his end of the bargain. Following the call between Martin and Cartwright, Paul reported to the AG, who agreed that Martin’s immunity deal was final. Martin seemed enormously relieved when Paul told him.
“However,” Paul said, “we want you to remain under house arrest until Cartwright is taken into custody.”
Martin didn’t argue.
Kelly, with Paul in tow, left Martin’s house. On the street, she phoned Mallory. “Where are you?” she asked the pilot.
“A motel near Teterboro Airport in New Jersey.”
“What’s your departure time?”
“Noon tomorrow for Chicago.”
“Can you meet me in the private plane terminal at Teterboro in an hour, maybe less? I’m heading out to Reagan to take a private plane there.”
“I’ll be here waiting for you.”
When she told Paul, he said, “You better go up alone. I don’t want to slow you down. I’ll stay here and rest, then join you at Teterboro in the morning.”
Moments after her arrival, Kelly found Mallory sitting in the lounge area sipping a can of Coke.
“Let’s go out to your plane to talk,” she said.
She signaled to the two techies who had flown up with her to accompany them.
Once the four were in the plane, Kelly said, “Here’s what I want to do.”
Mallory raised his hand. “Time out. I have some new news about our plans.”
“Go ahead.”
“A little while after you called me, Cartwright phoned. He told me that tomorrow morning I should make sure the plane is fully fueled. ‘We’re not going to Chicago,’ he said. ‘We’re going to an international destination. I’ll tell you where after I board the plane at noon tomorrow.’”
Kelly was ready to scream with joy. Cartwright had taken the bait. Her plan was working. Once Cartwright got on the plane tomorrow at noon, he would give Mallory the order to fly him to China. His words would be recorded. They would move in and block the plane from taking off, then arrest Cartwright.
She explained to Mallory that they would be hooking up a concealed recording system on the plane, as well as a recording device on his phone. Mallory didn’t ask why she was doing it. He was smart. He had probably pieced it together—or, being a good military man, he didn’t question orders.
While the techies were wiring the plane, Kelly arranged for New York field agents, armed with Cartwright’s picture, to watch all three New York airports in case he slipped away from her. She had people at headquarters checking manifests for all flights out of New York, but there was no reservation for Cartwright.
Once the plane was wired, Kelly told Mallory he could go back to his motel. Then she took over an empty office in the terminal building and installed a cot. That’s where she planned to spend the night, gun in one hand, phone in the other.
In the meantime, she checked with Felix, her lead agent in Manhattan from the FBI’s New York field office.
Felix told her, “Target is speaking now in the Waldorf ballroom. I have men on the floor watching him. Others will follow him when he leaves the Waldorf.”
An hour and ten minutes later, Felix called back. “Target is leaving the Waldorf in a limo. We’re following.”
“Good. Stay on the line with me.”
Fifteen minutes later, Felix said, “Target’s car pulled up in front of St. Regis . . . Target is shaking hands with well-wishers in front of the hotel . . . Entering hotel, and . . . Hold on for a minute. My man in the lobby reports that he took the elevator to the fifteenth floor. His suite is 1501. Looks like he’s calling it a night.”
“Good. What are your assets in the hotel?”
“I have one man inside the lobby. He’ll be replaced in five hours by a woman. Nobody abandons their post, not even for an instant.”
“What about outside the hotel?”
“We have a car parked on 55th Street in front of the main entrance and another midway down the block at the employee entrance. If the target leaves, they’ll let me know and follow him. I’ll report to you.”
“I want those men replaced in five hours as well.”
“They’re two of my best. They would never abandon their position.”
“Don’t argue,” she said sharply. The tension was getting to her. “Just replace them. My ass is on the line, and now yours is as well. We can’t let the target escape.”
New York
In his suite, Cartwright waited until 11:30 in the evening to take out his phone and call the theatrical makeup specialist whose contact info Liu had given him.
“Is this Melody?” he asked.
A woman replied in English with a Chinese accent. “Yes. Where are you?”
“St. Regis hotel.”
“I know where it is. Room number?” she asked.
“1501.”
When Cartwright had returned to the St. Regis from the Waldorf, he observed a man sitting in the lobby who was no doubt FBI. Even though Cartwright had seen many Chinese guests in the hotel, that agent would be sure to look at which floor the elevator stopped if a Chinese woman got on. So Cartwright added, “Take the elevator to the twelfth floor and walk up the last three flights.”
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” she said before hanging up.
Exactly thirty minutes later, Cartwright heard a knock on the door.
He opened it and admitted a young, bespectacled Chinese woman carrying a briefcase. He hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the knob before shutting the door.
“Did anyone in the lobby notice you?” he asked.
“No. Fortunately two Chinese women and one man came into the hotel right after me. I tried to blend in with them.”
“Good.”
“It’s time to go to work,” she said. “Strip down to your briefs, I don’t want to leave any residue on your clothes.”
Cartwright did what she said, then went into the bathroom where she was setting up. She directed him to a chair in front of a small table with a mirror above it. Then she took out a picture of a grayhaired man with glasses, which was identical to the Virgil MacMillan on the passport Liu had given Cartwright in Paris. She taped it up on the mirror.
Working slowly and carefully, she changed Cartwright’s facial appearance, his hair, and his eyes. She was a perfectionist, working for nearly an hour. When she was finished, she carefully cleaned up everything with her own towels, then put them back into her bag. He thanked her and told her to walk down three flights before taking the elevator back to the lobby.
Alone again in the suite, Cartwright sat down at the desk in the living room. He turned on his iPad and checked the Amtrak schedule. Seeing a 9:00 a.m. express train to Montreal from Penn Station, he made a reservation for a first-class seat for Virgil MacMillan, which he paid for with a Virgil MacMillan credit card. When the transaction was complete, Amtrak gave him a confirmation code to use in picking up his ticket. He jotted the confirmation code on a small St. Regis notepad on the desk, tore it off, and put it into his pocket.
Cartwright decided to wait until 4:00 a.m. to leave the St. Regis. Until then, he sat in the still room, staring at the ceiling. As he did, the enormity of what he was doing came driving home and hit him hard. He had no close family in the United States—his wife had died a year ago, and they had no children. Still, he loved the United States. He had spent his life serving his country. And now he would be remembered as a traitor, not a hero.
All of that was true. However, Cartwright believed he had pursued a path that was best for his country, and he had almost succeeded. In his view, the world was divided into those who had the courage to do what they believed in, and those who talked about it. Cartwright was a doer. He had courage. In war, he had taken risks. Most of the time, he had succeeded. Sometimes, he had failed. In his new life, he hoped Liu and his Chinese colleagues would listen to Cartwright’s pleas not to risk war with the United States, but he wasn’t confident of that.
At ten minutes to four, he used the bathroom and washed his hands. His eye itched from the makeup, so he wiped it gently with the corner of a towel. He put his cash, along with the Virgil MacMillan passport, credit cards, and a small pistol in his pocket. Leaving the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door and carrying only his iPad in his hand, Cartwright exited the room.
He walked confidently along the deserted corridor to the staircase, climbed down four flights, then took the elevator to the lobby. Calmly, he exited through the revolving door and down three stairs to 55th Street, not paying attention to the car parked in front with two men inside.
Melody had done a good job. No one stopped him.
On the sidewalk, he turned right. Coolly, with even, measured steps, he walked to the corner of Madison, never looking over this shoulder. Then he turned right and walked south on Madison for twenty-two blocks before turning west on 33rd Street and walking until he reached Penn Station.
Inside the station, he found an isolated area and sat on a wooden bench, waiting until the ticket windows opened at five o’clock. Then he provided his confirmation code to the agent, who gave him his train ticket. Once shops opened, he purchased two cell phones and a small wheelie suitcase so he would look like a traveler. He then used one of the phones to call Air China and purchase a first-class seat on their flight from Montreal to Hong Kong later that evening in the name of Virgil MacMillan. He also purchased several newspapers.
Back on the bench, Cartwright held up a newspaper close to his face, pretending to read. As soon as the train was available for boarding, he went down to the track.
He was safe. Kelly Cameron would never catch him.
New Jersey and Connecticut
Kelly slept sporadically, a total of an hour, she guessed, on the cot. Paul arrived at Teterboro at 9:30 in the morning. “I had to be here when you arrested Cartwright,” he told Kelly.
“The general hasn’t left the St. Regis yet,” she said to Paul. “He told Mallory they’d be flying out at noon, so I don’t think he’ll be here until a little before that.”
Kelly was calculating time. With traffic from Manhattan to Teterboro, he’d have to leave the St. Regis no later than 11:00 a.m.
She called Felix. “Let me know the instant the target leaves the St. Regis,” she instructed.
“Will do.”
At 10:30, Felix called and told Kelly, “Cartwright’s limo just arrived. It’s waiting in front of the hotel.”
So far so good, she thought.
At 11:15 she became worried. Mallory hadn’t heard from Cartwright. She called Felix, who checked with his agent in the lobby. “No sign of Cartwright at checkout.”
At 11:30 she called Forester to report. “I want your authorization to have Felix go in with a couple of agents and arrest Cartwright.”
“He may have taken his own life,” the director said.
“I hope not. I want to arrest the bastard.”
“Wait fifteen more minutes,” Forester said. “Then do it.”
The hotel management was cooperative, so at 11:45, Kelly told Felix to have a bellman open the door. “And keep me on the line for real-time reports.”
As soon as Felix and two of his agents were inside Cartwright’s suite, Kelly heard Felix shout, “Son of a bitch!”
“What the hell does that mean?” she asked.
“Cartwright’s not in the suite. He left all his clothes behind.”
She kicked a nearby wall so hard her foot throbbed. Paul was holding his head in his hands. Kelly was furious. She couldn’t let Cartwright get away.
“Get all your people into that suite,” Kelly said to Felix. “Check it with a fine-tooth comb for any hints about where he might have gone. Meantime, I’ll increase our vigilance at New York airports.”
Kelly also checked with Terry, the head of travel at FBI headquarters. Cartwright’s name wasn’t on any airplane reservations or manifests anywhere in the United States.
He couldn’t have vanished into thin air.
Kelly thought about taking a chopper to the St. Regis, but ultimately rejected the idea. She was better off at this command center. Fifteen minutes later, Felix called back.
“I have a couple of things for you,” he reported. He sounded excited.
“Go ahead.”
“One of my guys noticed indentations on a St. Regis notepad. It seemed as if something had been written on the page above and torn off. They worked hard on the pad.”
“And?” she asked, holding her breath.
“Somebody wrote K32PZ7R.”
Kelly scribbled it on a piece of paper.
Felix cautioned, “We don’t know it was Cartwright. It may have been a prior guest.”
“What else do you have?”
“This is a little more speculative.”
“Tell me.”
“Jennifer Coughlin, one of my agents, is confident that there was a smudge of makeup on a hand towel. She also claims she detected the odor of hair spray. However, none of my guys can smell a thing.”
Kelly was sure this meant that Cartwright had changed his appearance, explaining how he had departed the hotel undetected. “Give Jennifer a big thank-you for me,” she said before putting down the phone. She stared at the piece of paper on the table. K32PZ7R. She showed it to Paul. “Perhaps it’s a code to access Chinese help,” he mused.
That didn’t seem right to her. It could be an online confirmation code. She called Terry in travel at the FBI and read her the number.
