Threat Level Black

“The cards don’t stay active for all that long. The credit card companies tend to figure out what’s going on relatively quickly, since they’re looking for this. What you want to do is use the card to set up new accounts, keep turning everything over. A few hundred dollars a shot, ten of them a week-not a bad income.”

“Have you figured out the others yet?” asked Fisher.

“We’re working on it.”

“They work with real cards?”

“There’s always a real card at the root, if you can trace it back far enough. They probably steal the cards from the same source, then divvy them up. Probably they throw some of the new cards back once they set up accounts, rather than taking in cash, because the amounts are small.”

“Can I get an updated list of cards?”

“It’s hard to come by.”

“You’re telling me you don’t trust me?”

“We have different goals. You want to close your case. I want to close mine.”

“Mine’s more important.”

“That’s like saying one form of E. coli is more dangerous than another,” she said. “It depends on your perspective.”

Fisher patted the end of his cigarette pack against his palm. Friedrickberg threatened with her spray.

Then, completely out of character, she put it down.

“The problem with our investigation is getting access to records,” she said. “As soon as most people see false charges on there, they report it and the credit card company gets involved. The people who have the cards stop using them. They’re afraid of the mess involved in untangling their credit records.”

“That’s tough?”

“It’s a real pain in the ass, especially once these people get involved. They do dozens of cards with all sorts of aliases and accounts. Just tracking them is difficult. We’ve tried using phony cards,” added Martha. “But we think someone inside the credit card companies must be involved, because the phonies never go anywhere. If we just had the right circumstances, we could set up a sting and unravel this thing.”

“I’m too busy to go to Japan right now,” Fisher said.

“You don’t have to. Just your credit cards.”

Reluctantly, Fisher reached for his wallet.

Chapter 8

The new chairman of the board of NADT’s board of directors was a former vice president of the United States, now semiretired but still a major player inside the Beltway. Richard Nelson had a strong handshake and a confident manner, and he put Howe completely at ease when they finally met to discuss the job. Nelson had an office on K Street. There was a private club on the second floor of the building. He led Howe there via a private elevator; they sequestered themselves in a corner of the large room, alone except for Nelson’s bodyguard, who stood a respectful distance away across the room.

“It’s a ridiculously important job,” said Nelson. “It’s the equivalent of an undersecretary of defense, at the very least. And you’re the best man for it.”

“I hope so,” said Howe.

“Well, I’m sure of it. So is the board of directors.”

“I was told there might be questions about what happened in Korea,” said Howe. McIntyre had advised him to take the problem head-on, a strategy Howe himself favored.

“None. The CIA and the FBI were the ones who were flummoxed, not you. The attempt on your life the other day proves it. Was your lady friend hurt?”

“She’s not, uh, my girlfriend,” said Howe. He winced a little. “She was just a real estate agent who had been showing me houses. The thugs got the wrong idea.”

Nelson shook his head. “Thank God nothing happened to her.”

“So what happens now? The board takes a vote?”

“They’ve already voted,” said Nelson. “It was unanimous. You have the job-assuming you and I can come to terms.”

Chapter 9

On Wednesday morning, Mr. Brown’s home aide showed up bright-eyed if not bushy-tailed at precisely nine A.M. The two state troopers had been reassigned to help the Secret Service on the psycho beat for the President’s visit next week, so Fisher took the surveillance himself, huddling in a peeper-type raincoat on the corner opposite the main entrance. He had a paper bag around a beer can for camouflage; he’d poured out the beer and replaced it with coffee. This made it a little sweeter than he liked, but then, surveillance was all about weathering discomforts.

Fisher had put motion detectors with wireless alerts in the hallways so he could move around a bit and not have to stare at the place the whole time. He could see the stairway down to Mr. Brown’s apartment with the help of a curved mirror in the lobby, but he had to stand directly across from the doorway to see it through the glass.

An hour passed, then two. Fisher went and bought another beer and another coffee at the store.

“Your liver’s not going to know if it’s coming or going,” said the clerk in Spanish.

“It doesn’t now,” answered Fisher.