Friends at Homeland Security Read online

  At two thirty in the afternoon, we all trek back to Gramercy Park where we meet Detectives MacLeese and Redworth and are let in through the locked gate. Anne Marcus and her maid meet us at the door to their house.

  “Thank you for coming, detectives,” she says. “You must have had some breakthroughs in the case. I certainly hope we are getting closer to catching whoever did this terrible thing to my boy.”

  Mrs. Marcus seems less down and better put together this afternoon in comparison to our previous meeting. I would have thought she might have heard something about our interviews with Oriana Martignetti and Reggie Whitehead, despite all of our efforts to keep a lid on the information. We take it as a good sign that we are going to have the advantage of surprise.

  “Howard is in the library; we can meet in there.”

  The maid takes our coats, and we follow the lady of the house. Howard Marcus is standing in the center of the library waiting to welcome us, and glum as usual.

  “Welcome. Make yourself comfortable. Can we get you anything before we start?”

  “No thanks,” we four detectives answer in an impromptu off-key chorus.

  As per our agreement, Detective First, MacLeese, leads the conversation from our end. “I am going to address Mr. Marcus first, Mrs. Marcus. It is no slight to you and nothing sexist, but most of what we have to say involves him directly and not you, apparently.”

  Anne nods her understanding.

  “I’ll be blunt. NYPD and FBI forensic accountants have gone over your financials and those of your bank’s with expertise and due diligence. To make a long story short, we learned that Reggie Whitehead—part of your investment unit at the bank—got into financial trouble, and you got involved in some failing financial schemes with him which were ruinous. You, Whitehead, and Angus McTavish got desperate and got linked up with Vitaly Soriano and his father, Michael “Pretty Boy” Soriano. He bailed you out, provided funds that made a substantial profit, and restored the three of you to power and wealth beyond what you imagined possible. It was a deal with the devil, Mr. Marcus. We have you dead to rights on charges of money laundering and of aiding and abetting an organized criminal group. We are not quite sure how the Russian mafia fits in, but they do. We will find that out after our international associates finish their investigation.

  “We are certain that your son, Decklin, got wind of your criminal activities, moved all of his holdings to another bank, put some physical distance between you and him, and was probably in the process of informing NYPD and the FBI, and maybe the security division of the American Bankers Association, and the SEC.”

  Marcus turns deathly pale. His left eyelid goes into involuntary spasms.

  “Mr. Marcus, you are under arrest for participating with racketeers to launder money and to defraud your bank, for embezzlement, and for suspicion of murder. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney and to have that attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you at no cost. Please stand up.”

  He stands up, and Martin Redworth puts him in handcuffs. His face becomes as blank as a cheap haberdashery mannequin.

  “Is that absolutely necessary? I don’t believe for a second that my husband did any of that—most certainly he did not kill our son. That is unthinkable!” Mrs. Marcus blurts out.

  She weeps uncontrollably now. The hearts of all the detectives go out to her, but as I had promised on the first day I met Howard Marcus, I would let the chips fall where they may.

  “Is a deal possible?” Howard asks.

  Det. MacLeese is angry, and her response is cold, “No.”

  We are not certain how he learned about our coming for him, but Angus McTavish evidently got advance warning. I suspect Anne Marcus, but who knows? When we get to the McTavish house in Boerum Hill neighborhood of Brooklyn—one of the ten most expensive and exclusive neighborhoods in any of the five boroughs—we find a distraught wife who has to be supported to stand by her son and a Latina maid. They lead us to McTavish’s home office where he is hanging from a rope attached to the chandelier. His antique colonial chair is lying on its side on the parquet floor. There is no question about his being dead.

  Det. Redworth picks up a blank envelope from McTavish’s desktop. Inside, on cream-colored heavy bond letterhead paper is a simple declaration: “I’m terribly sorry more than you can even imagine. I am a thief. I have failed myself, my bank, my clients, my family, and my friends. I cannot face the consequences. I am a coward. Try to forgive me someday.” It is signed “A.M.”

  There is no mention of murder or of Decklin Marcus, and no confession with enough detail to be useful in court. We can only consider his suicide one more dreadful piece of fallout from this set of interwoven crimes. It is sad—but not unjust—we all reflect.

  On the way back to NYPD, MacLeese gets a call on her cell phone. She listens briefly, says “Thanks,” and puts her iPhone back in her purse.

  “Anything?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she says. “That was the desk sergeant at Robbery-Homicide. Seems that agents from Homeland Security will be meeting Redworth and me when we get back to 1PP.”

  “Lucky you,” I say. “We’d better get a cab and make ourselves scarce. Here’s a throwaway cell; use it to call me on my burner when you get away from the feds. The number is downloaded to your new phone.”

  “Okay,” she says, not feeling altogether perky.

  Chapter Nine

  Things are worse than MacLeese and Redworth envision during their ride to One Police Plaza. Sergeant Greene escorts them to the chief of D’s office. He is not alone, not by a long shot. Sitting in a democratic circle of chairs are: besides Robert Wainwright, the chief of detectives; Trayhorn Jones, the new NYPD commissioner of police; New York SAC, Douglas Merkley, special agent, FBI, Darryl Strathmore, special agent, Homeland Security, Dwight Hinckley; and Maxwell D. Bond, special assistant to the mayor of New York. It is a daunting sight for the two NYPD homicide detectives.

  “Have a seat, Detectives,” Chief Wainwright says. “Let’s get started. Commissioner Jones asked for this meeting to clear the air.”

  The commissioner says, “My office gets two or three complaints a week from Homeland Security about one of your cases, Detectives. They insist that they ordered you to cease and desist your involvement, and you have not complied. Why is that?”

  “Because we caught the case—a murder in the city of New York. As far as we can tell, Homeland Security doesn’t care a whit about the murder of our victim, Decklin Marcus. We do; and we have uncovered a conspiracy that definitely involves the Soriano crime family, three executives of Global Investment Bank, and maybe involves the Russian mafia,” Det. MacLeese says matter-of-factly—a demonstration of defiance to Dwight Hinckley’s way of thinking.

  “What part in all of this does Homeland Security play, Special Agent Hinckley?” the commissioner asks, turning to the federal agent.

  “That’s classified,” he replies without looking at the commissioner.

  “How does the murder of a citizen of the city of New York figure into a classified federal interest?”

  “That’s classified,” Hinckley says, now looking diffidently at the commissioner.

  “I think it is time to abbreviate this meeting,” Commissioner Jones says. “Is your answer to every question any of us ask you here today going to be ‘that’s classified’?”

  “Pretty much. But I will add the other pertinent reason for me being here: you will remove your uncooperative detectives and your department from the Decklin Marcus case. You will stand down.”

  New York City Commissioner of Police Trayhorn Jones is a black man who has spent a career hearing federal agents telling him to back off cases. He did not like any of that when he was a patrolman, and he likes it even less now.

  “Take this back to your boss, Secretary Robert Carter, US Depart
ment of Homeland Security,” Jones says. “The death of Decklin Marcus is entirely within the purview of the NYPD’s jurisdiction and responsibility. These two fine detectives have my full support and that of the entire NYPD. Their investigation will continue to its logical conclusion, and we will not allow interference by you or anyone else. Let me put it more clearly: if you interfere, you will be charged with obstruction of justice. You can go impress someone else with your ‘it’s classified’ BS”

  “We’ll see about that,” Hinckley says and stands up to leave. “Indeed we will, Special Agent. Until and unless the president of the United States himself gives us an order, we will not back away.”

  “That can be arranged, Commissioner,” Hinckley said as he walks out of the door.

  “That went well,” says Max Bond, the mayor’s representative. “However, this time I think the mayor will support you. He is sick and tired of the feds riding roughshod over the city, and looks at this Decklin Marcus affair as a test case.”

  When the meeting breaks up, both FBI Special Agent Strathmore and Mary Margaret MacLeese call me and give me a blow-by-blow. I put in a call to Sybil Norcroft and let her know that the case is getting even weirder. She says it is “stimulating”—which I find a bit strange—but she seems pretty calm about it; so, I decide not to worry overmuch.

  The idea of not “worrying overmuch” may have been premature, I decide, when—the next day—I get a summons to meet the president of the United States in the Oval Office. His secretary tells me that we will be discussing the Decklin Marcus case, and that the DCIA and the secretary of Homeland Security will be in attendance. That sounds like very heavy stuff, but I signed up to see the whole case to the end. So I guess it’s a matter of “if you’re in for a penny, you might as well be in for a pound.”

  Chapter Ten

  I like the way President Willets does things. He’s a man after my own heart, and it appears that DCIA Norcroft is of the same mind. President Willets meets us at the door to the Oval Office and has us sit in a semicircle of comfortable chairs and small couches facing the Lincoln desk. Everyone arrives at about the same time. “Everyone” includes the secretary of State, the secretary of Homeland Security, NYPD commissioner of police, the DFBI, the DCIA, and four little people. I am one of those little people; the other three are Detectives MacLeese and Redworth, and Special Agent Hinckley. The mood is decidedly negative with the federals looking daggers at us locals, and vice versa, with the exception of me. I am the picture of placid acceptance of being in the epicenter of this potential battle between the titans.

  If that were really true, why do I feel like this is going to be one of those situations that the old African proverb describes, “When the elephants fight, what gets hurt is the grass?” In truth I am on tenterhooks wondering what twist of fate has brought me into this fight between elephants.

  “Thank you all for coming, ladies and gentlemen. We are all very busy people; so, I won’t waste time with chatting. Secretary Carter and Commissioner Jones have briefed me about what is basically going on here. Let me state that what is said here, stays here, when we leave here. Anybody have an objection to that?”

  Everyone in the room nods in acceptance of that executive order.

  “First, let’s hear from Secretary Carter.”

  “I am here because the president ordered me to be; and further, he ordered that I divulge highly classified information. I am reluctant to do so, but hopefully everyone here is a patriotic American and will honor the president’s order to maintain secrecy.”

  His disdain for the rest of us is almost palpable.

  “Not to burden you with too many details, this is what Homeland knows: there is a complex interrelationship among elements of the main branch of the russkaya mafiya called the Solntsevskaya Bratva; the New York crime syndicate, the Soriano family; executives of the Global Investment Bank’s bank investment unit; the Howard Marcus family; and particularly, the murder victim, Decklin Marcus. One of the bank’s investment unit’s executives, Reggie Whitehead, gets himself and his partner Howard Marcus into dangerous financial trouble by investing with none other than Bernard Lawrence Madoff who is currently—and for the next 150 years to come—residing in the Butner Medium Federal Correctional Institution outside Butner, North Carolina, near Raleigh.

  “Enter the Sorianos. Whitehead makes a pact with the devil and arranges a bailout with loan sharks controlled by Michael “Pretty Boy” Soriano and his nephew, Vitaly. Since Howard Marcus and another bank executive named Angus McTavish colluded with Whitehead to use bank money to invest with Madoff, they were also desperate enough to go along with Whitehead’s deal. In brief, the deal is to look the other way when the Sorianos deposit huge sums of undocumented cash into the investment unit’s accounts—money laundering pure and simple, and on a staggering scale. Not only do the bank executives avoid the humiliation and possible criminal charges stemming from their misappropriation of bank funds, but they become billionaires several times over.

  “This illegal activity might have gone unnoticed had Decklin Marcus—son of Howard Marcus—not become aware of his father’s involvement. The young man was a moralist and a purist of the first order and became completely estranged from his father. He knew his father’s logins and passwords and used that information to get into his father’s and the bank’s secret account sites. He made a thumb drive copy of all of the incriminating data then left the family home for an apartment somewhere in the Bronx. He transferred all of his personal funds—which were substantial on his own—to another banking firm. He then pressured his father to come clean. Mr. Marcus told Whitehead what his son was doing, and Whitehead told Vitaly Soriano. The rest is somewhat conjecture, but we think young Decklin was then murdered by an operative hired by the Solntsevskaya Bratva. To put a cap on it, Angus McTavish kills himself and leaves a suicide note.”

  “What has this to do with Homeland Security? Sounds like a case of murder-for-hire by mobsters in New York,” asked Commissioner Jones.

  “I haven’t finished, Commissioner. Homeland Security is alerted when it comes to our attention that the source of most of the Soriano’s ill-gotten gains is from the sale of heroin. The source of that heroin is from Golden Triangle opium poppy plantations under the control of al-Qaeda. The heroin is transported by the Soriano family’s connections with Russian mob protection in a complicated deal where profits are split between the crime family, the Russians, and al-Qaeda. The funds were funneled from the Sorianos through the bank and then to legitimate businesses established by the American crime syndicate, to similar Russian mafia businesses, and about half going to an assortment of phony Islamic charities controlled almost entirely by al-Qaeda—the most notable of which is the Universal Islamic Assistance Foundation headed by Usama ibn al Bakr. The charities use a pittance to support their legitimate humanitarian functions and to build Islamic schools called Madrasahs. The majority of the money goes to jihadists who perpetrate terrorist attacks throughout the Middle East, Europe, and some in the US. Universal Islamic Assistance Foundation is given $286 million, of which only $10 million could be accounted for as having been received by legitimately needy individuals and organizations. Aware of much of the linkages, Decklin Marcus went to the FBI for starters, but he thought it would be better handled by Homeland Security. That is how we became involved.”

  President Willets asked Commissioner Jones to comment. “Mr. President, most of this is new to me and to my detectives. The way I now see it is that there can be a good working relationship between NYPD and the federal government agencies. We have already found—with some federal help—that Decklin was murdered by the use of a very sophisticated poison supplied by the Russian mafiya. We have evidence we think is probably enough to indict and to convict an operative of the Russians—a Byelorussian mercenary hit man named Viachaslau Mazurkiewicz—whose present whereabouts are unknown. We have arrested the primary perpetrators of the financial crimes, including the murder victim’s own father and th
e principal Soriano crime family members. We are anticipating a domino effect of small fry escaping punishment by implicating their bosses. It is a work in progress. Howard Marcus is being held without bail for the time being as a co-conspirator in the death of his son, but I have to admit that the evidence is a bit shaky on that score. As I see it, our NYPD detectives should continue to work the narrow issue of Decklin’s murder, and Homeland Security should continue to work the terrorism angle.”

  “And I think your NYPD is in over its head. Not only do you not have an adequate idea of the complexity of what is going on in this case—of which the murder is only a small part—but you do not have either the resources or the authority to pursue the international and terrorism aspects of it. This is a Homeland Security issue, and that’s final,” says the steely-eyed secretary of Homeland Security.

  Commissioner Jones starts to speak, but the president cuts him off.

  “Hang on a minute, Commissioner. I think it is time for us to hear from the CIA as a matter of practicality,” President Willets says, holding up his hand as a stop sign.

  Jones nods.

  DCIA Sybil Norcroft turns her chair around; so, she can face the men in the room directly.

  “Thank you, Mr. President. I think the CIA can make a definite contribution. As I see it, one of the linchpins in this entire case is the Byelorussian hit man. We have the resources to locate him, and hopefully, to bring him in. We can work with our counterparts in Russian intelligence to find him. He can even be interrogated in the Russian system, which—I don’t need to emphasize—has a more vigorous attitude toward interrogation than we do. I know that because I have already been in communication with Colonel General Yevgeni Mitrokhin, Director of the SVR [Foreign Intelligence Service] and Michael Levinovich Ledvinov, Director of the MVD [Ministry of Internal Affairs] who are only too happy to help and thereby to avoid an international incident that might link their government with the Solntsevskaya Bratva, Islamic terrorists—a mutual enemy of ours and theirs—and international drug traffickers—a current and continuing concern for the Russian government. In my opinion, we need to wrap the entire case up into one final neat bundle. We can only do that by utilizing all of our resources and by cooperating with each other. Turf battles should be set aside.”