WASHINGTON, D.C.
FRIDAY, 7:02 A.M. EST
I’m Special Agent Kim, with the Special Investigations Unit of the Department of Justice,” she said. “Uncuff the Congressman. He’s not going anywhere.”
“Where the fuck am I?” Shepard Truman demanded as his hands were released.
“You are at a safe location,” Donatella said. “We brought you here first to avoid the television cameras parked outside FBI headquarters.”
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done? I’m a United States congressman!”
“That’s why we brought you here first, sir. As a courtesy.”
“A fucking courtesy!”
“You’re welcome. I think you meant to say thank you.”
“I’m going to fry your ass over this. You know I’m on the House Oversight Subcommittee, for fuck’s sake!”
“We’re well aware of who you are, sir. That’s why you’re here and not being frog-marched in front of the Hoover Building and CNN cameras.”
“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?”
“Funny,” Donatella said, deadpan. “That’s the exact question I was about to ask you, Congressman.”
“I want my lawyer.” Truman sat up in his chair. “I’m not saying a word without Fred Faulkner.”
“We can play it that way, Congressman. But before you make any more rash decisions, why don’t you have a look at this?”
Donatella slid a stack of paper in front of him.
“What the hell is this?” he said, looking down at a government form.
“These are the FEC filings for the Friends of Shepard Truman Political Action Committee. Your PAC.”
“So what?”
“Turn to the next page. That’s the bank records for the PAC. At the bottom you’ll see we’ve marked three transactions from a bank account in the Cayman Islands.”
“You’ll have to ask Fred Faulkner about those. I don’t have anything to do with the PAC. That’s the whole point.”
“Bear with me, Congressman. I think you’ll want to follow this trail,” she said, flipping to the next page and pointing to a yellow circle around an address. “Here. We’ve identified the owner of that account as Harvey Holden. Do you know Mr. Holden?”
“Of course. Harvey’s an old friend and a longtime constituent of mine. So what?”
“Mr. Holden is the senior partner at Holden Harriman Quinn. He’s also a minority owner of the Brooklyn Nets basketball team.”
“Everybody knows that!”
“I’m just establishing some facts, Congressman.”
“Whatever Harvey’s done has nothing to do with me. Nothing at all.”
“What do you know about Turkish bonds?”
“Turkish bonds? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What about Indonesian currency swaps? Or Ukrainian debt?”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Do you know Mr. Holden’s business partners?”
“I have no idea who Harvey does business with. How could I?”
“You’re welcome to flip through the next few pages, Congressman. But here’s what you’ll find. Or, rather, here’s what we’ve discovered. HHQ was in financial trouble. Big trouble. Despite the fancy offices and glowing news profiles, HHQ was technically bankrupt after overpaying for distressed assets, such as Wildcat Oil. Then they doubled down on petroleum and got caught over-leveraged in oil price futures.”
“This has nothing to do with me.”
“Have you ever heard of the Bolshaya Neva Fund?”
“No.”
“Bolshaya Neva is based in St. Petersburg. That’s Russia,” she added, just to annoy him. “The fund rescued Wildcat Oil and HHQ by taking a silent majority stake.”
“I still don’t see what any of this has to do with me.”
“To make Wildcat Oil profitable again, the plan was for Bolshaya to bring the cash. HHQ brought the political connections. That was you.”
“Me?”
“Did you call the U.S. ambassador in Manila on behalf of Harvey Holden on January fourth of last year?”
“I don’t recall.”
“On February twenty-second, did you contact the Commerce Department seeking information on oil contracts in Indonesia?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“Did you call the Justice Department the following month to urge them to open investigations into Chinese companies that were in direct competition with Wildcat Oil?”
“I just want a fair playing field for American companies. That’s all. I’m ensuring that American business can operate around the world free from the tyranny of corruption.”
“Did you make contact with an official of the Nigerian oil ministry to lobby on behalf of Wildcat?”
“Are you serious? The Nigerians are the corrupt ones. I’m trying to protect an American investor. Can’t you see it? I’m trying to serve American national interests.”
“Did you call the Secretary of State’s chief of staff just this week to ask for help finding an HHQ employee, a Mr. Jason Saunders, who reportedly went missing in London?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing’s wrong. It’s just ironic.”
“What’s ironic about helping a constituent? That’s what members of Congress do.”
“Uh-huh,” Donatella said. “What I’m seeing here is a pattern of political favors in exchange for financial contributions.”
“What?”
“Another word for this is . . . ‘corruption.’”
“This is bullshit. You haven’t proved anything. You’ve got nothing.”
“We have a witness already. Mr. Saunders is ready to testify in open court how HHQ funneled money from illegal Russian sources into your campaign fund.”
“Saunders?” Truman’s face contorted with confusion. “You found the missing kid? How is he . . . involved?”
“Involved? He’s right in the middle of it. He’s our star witness, Congressman. Jason Saunders is going to blow the whole case wide open.”
“I’m not saying anything.”
“That’s fine. We know everything already. How the money was moved, where it came from, where it went.” Donatella Kim cracked her knuckles. “How it was covered up.”
“I want my lawyer.”
“That’s not even the worst part, Congressman.”
“I’m not saying another fucking word until my lawyer is present.”
“Don’t you want to know about Harvey Holden’s mystery angel investor?”
“No.”
“The Bolshaya Neva Fund is into some strange stuff, Congressman.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“Bolshaya Neva launders money for Russian organized crime.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“You ever heard of the Bear?” Donatella asked.
“No.”
“Well, he knows you. The Bear’s responsible for the murder of hundreds of people. He’s ruined thousands of lives. He traffics everything from narcotics to arms to people. That’s guns, drugs, little girls.” Donatella paused to let that image sink in. “Now the Bear’s moving into the oil business. And guess who is his man in Washington, D.C.?”
Shepard Truman looked up blankly at Donatella Kim.
She arched her eyebrows. “You.”
Truman dropped his head.
“Here’s the picture that a jury’s going to see. The Friends of Shepard Truman Political Action Committee is really a front for Holden Harriman Quinn, which is a front for Wildcat Oil, which is actually a front for Bolshaya Neva, which is a front for a psychopathic Russian mob boss.”
“That’s quite a story, Special Agent Kim.”
“That’s exactly what a jury’s going to see once we get through connecting all the dots. Shepard Truman, Congressman from New York’s Tenth District . . . Works for the Bear.”
“This is all circumstantial. You don’t have anything on me.”
“The FBI’s counterpart in Nigeria has been doing some homework on your business partners. The Nigerian Crime and Corruption Task Force is ready to unseal its findings.” Donatella dropped a thick bound report on the table with a thud. “Here’s an advance copy from Judge Akinola’s investigation. Would you like to know what it says?”
“No.”
“Well, here are the highlights, Congressman. Oil executives dropping dead. Workers disappearing. Pipelines exploding. The platform that was overrun. The sixty-four dead men, including an American engineer with a wife and two kids. It’s all part of a plan to use local militias to attack the Chinese. So Wildcat Oil can take over their concessions. Judge Akinola’s report brings the whole story into focus.”
“You can’t connect anything back to me.”
“With Akinola’s dossier, we can now show exactly how the Bear was trying to muscle in. We can show how Holden was working for the Bear. And we can show how you were a key part of it.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong. You have no proof.”
Donatella tapped the microphone on her radio. “Bring it in.”
An agent in an FBI windbreaker entered the room carrying a large red picnic cooler, which he set down.
Donatella sat back in her chair and stared at Truman, savoring the moment and again wishing that Isabella Espinosa could be there. Then, slowly and deliberately, she opened the cooler top and grabbed two black cartons of Breyers ice cream, holding them both out in front of her.
“Congressman, vanilla or chocolate?”