“I’m good, thanks. Still digging through the background information on Graff. Fascinating stuff.”
“Not half as interesting as the girl who came on to you last night.”
“The lovely Francesca Luca?”
O’Brien cleared his throat. “One interesting chick, let me tell you.”
“Yeah, no kidding. Spit it out.”
“Numerous arrests for prostitution. Said it was to put herself through college. But she’s been bailed out numerous times. Here’s the kicker: it’s always the same person.”
“Who bails her out?”
“Same woman. Karen Simon. I did a bit of digging. Simon is her maiden name. So, this Karen Simon is bailing out this Francesca chick. But she’s not using her married name. She hasn’t been called Karen Simon for at least fifteen years. She’s married but separated. Husband lives in Switzerland, I think.”
“What’s her name now?”
“Karen Feinstein. I checked out Francesca’s phone records. She made two calls recently to a cell phone owned by Feinstein. I’ll send over the dossier later.”
“Who does Feinstein work for?”
“She’s the founder of Fein Solutions.”
McNeal’s interest was piqued. “Never heard of them.”
“Not many people have. Geo-strategy firm. Intelligence operatives.”
“You kidding me?”
“It gets better, kid. Karen Feinstein used to work for—”
“The CIA?”
“Bingo again! Know what else? You’re going to really like this.”
“We’ve got a connection with Graff?”
“Got it in one guess. Both worked within the Parwan Detention Facility at Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan. High-level detainees were their specialty, including breaking them. Both their names were mentioned in a partially redacted report from the Red Cross.”
McNeal got up from his seat and stared out over downtown DC. “I can see how that would work. Graff uses Feinstein to do work for his clients. His hands are clean. Or a lot cleaner than if he had taken direct involvement.”
“Keeps the heat off his company and his clients. And if the shit hits the fan, Feinstein or her operatives will take the rap.”
“And Feinstein is using people like Francesca Luca as your classic honey trap?”
“Pretty much.”
“Close call, let me tell you. Finn, please bill me for this work. I feel bad for taking up your time without paying. I prefer to keep things aboveboard. You understand?”
“I understand. But I don’t want a paper trail. This is a personal favor for you and your father. You need people you can trust at times like this, son. But think long and hard before you go after this guy.”
Twenty-Nine
Andrew Forbes approached a small village in the eastern foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains when his cell phone buzzed to life. He was seventy miles west of Washington, DC.
A man’s voice told him, “You’re getting closer.”
“Thank God for that. I thought I was never going to get there.”
“Drive on for two more miles.”
Forbes did as he was told. He saw the sign marked Old Rag Mountain.
“You’ll get on the Old Rag Mountain trail up ahead.”
“Old Rag—”
“Then get out of your vehicle and hike on the dirt path.”
“Got it.”
“One final thing: remember, take the battery out of your cell phone.”
“Why do you want me to do that?”
“So, we know you’re alone and not being followed. Do you copy?”
“I understand. Sorry, copy that, yes.”
“Don’t be late.”
Forbes’s mouth went dry. He considered what the hell he was doing out in the middle of nowhere. He drove until he saw the sign and parked. He got out of the vehicle. He pulled on his backpack that contained water, a compass, and some cereal bars. He carefully took the battery out of his cell phone and placed it in a side pocket. He followed the dirt path into the woods. He hiked on for a mile through a forest, heading higher into the wild. Shoulder-high ferns brushed his skin. He flicked away the flies buzzing his face. “Fuck!”
He trudged through single-track trails and ankle-deep streams until he came to a clearing. Two men stood, wearing camouflage, shades, and masks, each holding semi-automatics, blocking his path.
The smaller of the two stepped forward. “Spread ’em! Hands on your head!”
Forbes complied as the guy frisked the insides of his legs, waist, and chest. The backpack was ripped off his back.