DOWNTOWN WASHINGTON, D.C.
TUESDAY, 12:15 P.M. EST
Judd had been feeling cooped up in his office and needed fresh air, so he decided to walk the seven blocks from the State Department to the White House. The traffic was heavy for midday. Herds of taxis, government-plated vans, and diplomatic limousines crowded the streets around the World Bank.
As Judd crossed 17th Street near the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, a huge black SUV with the telltale red-white-and-blue diplomatic license plates came to a screeching halt, nearly hitting him. Judd jumped back onto the sidewalk but kept moving.
After skirting the crowds of tourists wandering by the front gate to the West Wing, he cut across Lafayette Park, past the bright yellow stucco of St. John’s Episcopal Church across H Street, to McPherson Square. As he strode across the grass, he spotted Isabella Espinosa seated at a table on the sidewalk. Underneath the bright orange umbrellas of Siroc, the Moroccan-Italian restaurant she had suggested, Isabella looked serious in her sunglasses and tapered dark-blue business suit. As usual, she was thumbing fiercely on her phone, her lips pursed.
“You cut your hair,” Judd said, still catching his breath from his hike.
“You’re still wearing the same suit,” she said without looking up.
“Good to see you, Isabella. I’ve missed this.”
“Me too,” she said, slipping the phone into her pocket and flashing a warm smile. “I did cut my hair. Mi madre hates it. Says I look like a boy.”
“I think it makes you look younger. More intense,” Judd said, taking a seat at the table.
“That’s what I’m going for. Justice Department youthful intensity. How’s the family?”
“Boys are good. Jessica still busy. She sends her best. Thanks for asking.”
“Any word from our Colonel Durham?” Isabella asked.
“Not lately. Last I heard, he was deployed overseas again. I’m sure I’ll hear from old Bull once he’s back in the States. But he goes through these periods of total radio silence. It’s normal for the Special Ops guys to disappear.”
“And then they just reappear. I dated a Green Beret once. I know all about it.”
“You dated a Green Beret?” Judd raised his eyebrows and smirked.
“Forget it, Judd.” She shook her head.
“Was that back in LA? Before or after law school?”
“I’m not talking about it. Let it go.”
“You brought it up.”
“No I didn’t,” she insisted. “I just agreed that it’s strange when people close to you have secret lives. When they suddenly appear, then disappear. It makes life complicated.”
“You talking about this boyfriend or your mother?”
“I said forget it. I hate talking about my personal life,” Isabella said.
“Me too,” Judd said. “Speaking of disappearances, you find anything on Jason Saunders?”
“I looked into your missing person. FBI’s got nothing. Looks like he vanished without a trace. The Metropolitan Police in London have opened a file at our request, but I don’t expect them to find anything. Do you know how many people go missing in London every year?”
“I’m at a dead end,” Judd said, scanning the menu.
“I would drop it. You’re a strategist, not a private detective.”
“You’re probably right. S/CRU isn’t built for this.”
“Good idea, Judd. I’m sorry I can’t help you more.”
“One thing is bugging me, Isabella.”
She took a sip of her drink. “Shoot.”
“I can’t help but wonder if Jason Saunders was just very unlucky”—Judd winced—“or if he was targeted for some reason.”
“If this kid was caught up in a scam—and that’s a big leap, Judd—it’s almost certainly random. That’s how those advance fee scams work. They throw out as many lines as they can and wait for someone naïve enough to reply. They spray and pray.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. I hope you’ve got another reason for buying me lunch.” She looked up with a mischievous grin. “I’m ordering the lobster cavatelli special.”
“You mentioned on the phone something about the Nigerian Crime and Corruption Task Force. Tell me more.”
“Nigeria?” She sat back in her chair. “What’s the angle with Saunders? The CCTF can’t help you find him, even if he disappeared in Lagos instead of London.”
“Unrelated,” Judd said, shaking his head. “You told me that DOJ worked with the task force. You know anything about this Judge Akinola?”
“Bola Akinola,” she said. “Smart guy. Highly capable. Akinola set up the CCTF. We helped him do it. He spent time in New York working with the FBI and DOJ teams, learning how we trace fraud, how we gather evidence, how we execute takedowns. He took our advice to heart and hasn’t looked back. The student became the master. Why are you asking about him?”
“Just checking him out. I’ve heard he’s impressive,” Judd said.
“Akinola’s been building cases and kicking in doors. He even took down a corrupt governor in Nigeria who was skimming millions off the state budget. You might have heard about it. Akinola’s built a little anticrime empire over there.”
“So Bola’s succeeding in fighting corruption?”
“He’s made a dent. He’s uncovered links between politicians and Russian arms traffickers. He was behind the Interpol warrant for the Director of Customs after he traced funds back to a Colombian cocaine cartel,” Isabella said.
“Bola was behind that case? I remember reading about it in the paper.”
“Yes. He’s certainly spread fear into the political class.”
“So he’s making enemies, too,” Judd said.
“Any time you target powerful political elites, you put a bull’s-eye on your back. That’s rule one of corruption hunters: Corruption fights back. He’s been investigating who’s behind the pirate attacks and pipeline sabotage. He’s gone deep into the Niger Delta militants. He’s playing a very dangerous game.”
“What does that mean?”
“Bola Akinola is in the devil’s den,” Isabella whispered.
“Are you saying that Bola’s too close? That he’s becoming corrupt?”
“You ever see the movie Donnie Brasco?” she asked.
“A mafia movie, I think.” Judd tapped his fingers on the table. “What’s your point?”
“Johnny Depp plays an undercover FBI agent who befriends a mobster played by Al Pacino. Depp’s character goes deep inside the family. So deep that the line between criminality and justice becomes blurred. That’s a very thin line.”
“Are you saying that Bola Akinola, the head of the Nigerian anticrime unit, is becoming a criminal himself?”
Isabella shrugged. “To accomplish what he’s done, Akinola needed to build relationships. He needed to get close to some very dangerous people.”
“So DOJ thinks he’s too close?”
“I couldn’t say. But it’s a good question, amigo.” She picked up her menu. “What are you having for lunch?”
Judd stared down at the menu but wasn’t seeing the words. Questions about Jason Saunders, Landon Parker, Bola Akinola, and Mariana Leibowitz all spun around inside his head. Was Mariana handing me a valuable lead? Or sending me into a devil’s den?
“Who’s your friend?” Isabella asked.
“What?” Judd cocked his head, confused.
“The SUV with foreign diplomatic plates,” she said, keeping her eyes low. “The driver in the alley has been watching us.”
Judd spun around just as a black Chevy Suburban bolted out of a side street and roared away.