BUTCH KARP ALLOWED THE ANGER to wash over him as he looked out the window of his office at the park across the street. He was now fully aware of the treachery and deceit that had taken place. As his thoughts swirled, he watched children chase after one another in the late-afternoon heat while vendors hawked hot dogs, soda, and knishes to passersby, and panhandlers worked the crowd. His attention was drawn to a young couple lying on the grass locked in an embrace and then turned back to the man who sat defeated in the chair across from his desk with his head down.
“I get you anything, Richie?” Karp asked.
“No, I’m good, thanks, Butch,” Bryers replied, his voice subdued.
Karp nodded and wondered for what must have been the hundredth time that day that of all the people in the world who would crack open the MIRAGE case, it would be an old friend from high school. He and Richie Bryers had played basketball against each other for rival schools in Brooklyn; although fierce competitors on the court, they’d both admired each other’s game and were designated co-captains of the elite All-City Basketball Team. Then, when they attended summer basketball camps together, the admiration had developed into a friendship. That friendship had lasted after Karp went off to play for the University of California–Berkeley and Richie went to Harvard. Busy lives since had limited most of their interaction to holiday cards and the occasional phone call, but they hadn’t lost touch.
The last thing he’d expected that morning, however, was Bryers calling to say he needed to talk to him about a murder. Surprise had turned to incredulity when his old friend started telling a fantastic story about having an affair with the wife of one of the wealthiest men in the world and that he believed her death was being swept under the rug.
Karp glanced at the New York Times lying on his desk. The news of the woman’s death was on the top of the front page beneath a double-decker headline: Billionaire Philanthropist’s Wife Drowns; Clare Dune Dies in Long Island Home Pool.
A sub-headline suggested that a combination of alcohol and prescription drugs might have been partly responsible for what the story, quoting an anonymous source in the Suffolk County medical examiner’s office, termed an “accidental” drowning while hinting at the possibility of suicide. The story noted that Dune’s “shocked and grieving” husband, Wellington Constantine, had immediately flown home from Camp David, where he’d been vacationing with the president.
“Mr. Wellington asks that his and his son’s privacy be respected as they grieve,” according to a statement released by the billionaire’s publicity team.
Initially during his telephone conversation with Richie, Karp had listened politely for old times’ sake as Bryers accused Constantine of killing Dune. A moment later, he’d bolted upright in his chair when his friend mentioned that he believed Constantine was involved in “some crazy plot called MIRAGE” and was connected to the murder “of that Army officer in Central Park.” He’d interrupted the conversation and asked Bryers to come in as soon as he could.
Now, with Bryers sitting across the desk from him as Fulton sat nearby listening, Karp had his old friend tell his story. “It has to be his goon, Shaun Fitzsimmons,” Bryers said. “Constantine was at Camp David.”
“Dinner with the president is a pretty good alibi,” Fulton acknowledged.
“He’d never get his own hands dirty,” Bryers said. “But Clare thought he’d had Fitzsimmons push that New York City Council member, Jim Hughes, off his balcony.”
Karp looked at Fulton, who narrowed his eyes. “I know the detectives who worked that case,” Fulton said. “They weren’t convinced he was a jumper. Maybe there were some fingerprints left at the scene they haven’t been able to connect. I’ll pass this along.”
When he got to the part of his story where Clare was in Constantine’s library, Bryers showed him the photograph taken from the journal and her next text saying she thought someone else was in the house.
“If you don’t mind, Richie, we’re going to need to turn over your phone to my forensics guys,” Karp said. “I don’t know how they work all of their magic, but I think they might be able to prove that these came from her phone, and what time, and even where she was when they were sent. I’d like to have her phone, but that would tip off our suspects.”
“Whatever it takes,” Bryers responded.
Finally, it all makes sense, Karp thought, as he looked over at his grieving friend. Like the tumblers in a bank vault, the pieces of the MIRAGE case clicked into place, with Bryers providing the final digits.
Now Malovo’s information also made sense, connecting the dots from a photograph she’d downloaded on Constantine’s computer taken in Istanbul to a bloody raid in Syria to a showdown on the tarmac at the air base in Saudi Arabia to the murder of a decorated Army colonel in Central Park. She didn’t know the name of the master puppeteer, but Bryers had just drawn a line between those dots to him. No wonder Mueller had been so afraid of “they”—or, more accurately, “he”—when Karp talked him into surrendering at the zoo. Wellington Constantine was not just one of the wealthiest men in the world; he was one of the best connected.
Karp had never liked the man. He created so-called not-for-profits allegedly to fund inner-city welfare organizations that were ignobly antipolice groups led by radical homegrown militants. But that wasn’t affecting whether or not he would make a case against him for the murder of Colonel Swindells. That would be determined by the legally admissible evidence. Moreover, Karp would seek an indictment only if he could prove the case not just beyond a reasonable doubt but “beyond any and all doubt,” so that even Constantine’s supporters, his media assets and amoral public officials, would have to concede his guilt.
Even if Swindells didn’t know who was behind MIRAGE, Karp thought, he knew the conspiracy had to go about as far up the ladder as it could. No wonder he warned Ariadne to stay away from the “shark-infested waters.”
Those waters had nearly engulfed Stupenagel and Marlene when they went to the memorial service and talked to Sasha Swindells. It had never ceased to amaze him how his wife always seemed to end up in the middle of the action, or how good she was at handling it.
Fulton had run a background check on the burglar she shot, which had resulted in interesting but not particularly revealing findings. The deceased was one Toby Milhowski, ex–Special Forces who’d served in Iraq until he and other members of his company were court-martialed and dishonorably discharged for the torturing of civilians.
“There wasn’t much else on him, except a New York driver’s license that listed a Yonkers address that turned out to be false. He hasn’t even filed tax returns since getting out of the Army,” Fulton reported, “which tells me he’s a guy flying under the radar. The only thing we could find was a car loan application he filled out a few years back listing his employer as Frontline Security Services, which had a Newark address but apparently went out of business not long after that. We’re trying to run that down, see who else might have been involved.”
No telling who the other burglar had been, but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that they’d been after whatever Swindells had regarding MIRAGE. Karp found it ironic that the colonel had hidden clues about how to locate that information in a West Point publication about ethics and living an honorable life. So antithetical to these people’s warped ideology, he thought, so probably a good place to hide it.
When Marlene and Ariadne had brought the Gold Book to Karp’s office yesterday, they’d all pored over it looking for clues as to what it meant. Obviously, Swindells wanted to get it in the hands of an investigative journalist he trusted. But there was nothing in the thin book that yielded any answers. Not until they turned it over to the DAO’s crime lab technicians.
“Turns out that the colonel marked certain letters and words using a highlighter detectable only with a black light,” Fulton said when he brought the book back, along with a copy that showed the highlighted areas. “The crime lab boys were pretty excited about discovering that, though it is still in a code of some type.”
The first part of the coded information was easy enough to decipher. On different pages, Swindells had marked M-I-R-A-G-E. But he’d also highlighted other letters and numbers that at first didn’t make sense until Marlene sat up and said, “Those are GPS coordinates.” She’d quickly punched the coordinates into an app on her cell phone, and then smiled. “It’s the library at West Point,” she said.
Further study revealed the title of a book, Boots and Saddles, as well as a surname, Farrington, and the words, “The Battle of the Little Bighorn.” The hints necessitated a return trip for Marlene and Stupenagel, who insisted on going to the academy with Fulton and Jaxon. “After all,” Adriadne had said, “Mick intended that this go to me, and I’m sharing.”
At the academy, they met Sasha Swindells, who escorted them to the library. As they entered the building, Marlene pointed to a directory on the wall. “That solves one riddle,” she said. The directory listed A. E. Farrington as the curator of rare books.
“I say we go straight to the horse’s mouth,” Jaxon suggested.
As they told Karp, a few minutes later they found the rather mousey-looking curator sitting in a back office. He’d raised an eyebrow when the unusual group approached him but otherwise said nothing and just frowned.
“I’m looking for Boots and Saddles,” Sasha said.
“It’s a memoir written by Elizabeth Bacon Custer about her time on the plains with her husband, General George Armstrong Custer.” Farrington sniffed. “I’m sure you can find it on the shelves. We have several copies that are available to West Point students and alumni.”
“I think this might be a very special copy,” Sasha continued, but Farrington didn’t respond.
“My father, Colonel Michael Swindells, might have left it here.”
Still no response. The group looked at one another.
“I’d like to know more about the Battle of the Little Bighorn.”
Farrington smiled sadly. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said. “But the colonel, a dear friend—believe it or not we were in the same year here at the Point—made me promise to wait until I heard those words. He gave it to me several days before he was shot.” He got up and walked over to an ancient-looking safe and removed a manila envelope, which he handed to Sasha.
“I was so sorry to hear about your father,” Farrington said. “I hope justice will be done in his name.”
Sasha smiled and had to wipe at a tear that rolled down her cheek. “I hope so, too, and this may help,” she said, and hugged the suddenly embarrassed librarian.
The team had returned from their excursion to West Point with their prize and reported to Karp, but it wasn’t something he could share with his friend. “I can’t tell you everything that is going on,” Karp told Richie. “You’re a witness, and it’s going to be a long, hard journey getting justice. But I will tell you that this is all part of a bigger picture than you know, even with what you’ve told me.”
At that moment, there was a knock on the door, and Jaxon and Marlene entered the room. Karp quickly filled them in on Bryers’s story.
When he finished, Jaxon could barely contain his anger. “These sons of bitches,” he spat. “This goes beyond murder. This is treason.”
“So what’s next?” Marlene asked.
Karp thought about it for a minute. “A lot of dominoes have to fall,” he said. “I need Mueller to turn, which means convicting him at trial. I also want Fitzsimmons. How’s our story holding up about what happened the other night?”
“I talked to the superintendent at West Point,” Jaxon said. “A good man, outstanding service record, and served with Colonel Swindells in Vietnam. I told him it was a matter of national security and also important to bringing the colonel’s murderers to justice. He raised an eyebrow when I said ‘murderers,’ not ‘murderer,’ but didn’t ask any questions. So far the only thing that’s been in the press is that two burglars were caught breaking into the colonel’s house, and that one of them was shot and killed. The name of the shooter is being withheld pending investigation.”
Karp looked at Bryers. “Richie, what I’m going to ask you to do might be dangerous, but it also might help us get the guys who killed Clare.”
“Like I said, whatever it takes,” Bryers said grimly.
“Good. I want to talk it over with Clay. I’ll get back to you tonight.”
“Okay.” Bryers nodded and got up to leave. “You know, this is my fault. I don’t know if it’s because of what we were doing, or because she got caught in the library, but either way it’s on my head.”
“You didn’t murder her,” Karp told him. “Whatever else you need to deal with, that’s your call, but nothing you did was worth killing her for.”
After Bryers left the room, Karp looked at Jaxon. “We got the right files?”
Jaxon nodded. Karp was referring to the contents of the manila envelope they’d brought back from the West Point library. Inside was a book, or most of a book, because a small rectangle had been cut into the pages just deep enough to contain a computer flash drive.
“Yeah, we had it tested,” Jaxon said. “We just got word. It’s the MIRAGE file that was taken from us in Saudi Arabia. But it’s encrypted, and I’m worried about turning it over to the usual folks who deal with that sort of thing. This goes about as far up as it can go, and no telling where Constantine has his tentacles.”
“I have an idea about that,” Karp said, and looked over at his wife. “You remember Iaian Weber?”
“How could I forget,” Marlene said.
She turned to Jaxon, who had no idea who Iaian Weber was. “He’s the same age as our twins, but with an IQ so far off the charts he makes even Giancarlo, who’s a bona fide Mensa, look like a slacker. The kid was doing calculus by third grade, and I believe he won the National Science Fair in the sixth grade, up against high school geniuses with his project with which he duplicated from scratch how the U.S. Navy broke the Japanese code during World War II that won the Battle of Midway.”
“Exactly,” Karp said with a grin. “I think he was the youngest ever admitted for Ph.D. work in computer sciences at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Isn’t that what his parents said the last time we had dinner with them?”
“I thought they said he was specializing in drone aerial surveillance technology,” Marlene said. “Has several top secret government contracts and all that.”
“That’s right,” Karp agreed. “But his dad and I got to talking about how Iaian’s hobby is still code breaking and he was working on duplicating the Enigma computer used to break the Nazi code in World War II. What do you think about me contacting Iaian and seeing if we could enlist his help?” he asked Jaxon. “I know he has the highest security clearances.”
“I’m all for it,” Jaxon replied. “Especially if it keeps what we’re doing off the grid. If Constantine or you-know-who in that photograph Malovo gave us gets wind of this, it’s going to get hot . . . really hot.”
Karp smiled. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”