Free Friends at Homeland Security by Carl Douglass Page B

getting to the baggie. There is a term for what we did in the technical language of attorneys: “Scattered tidbits of real mixed with mountains of “b—s—.”
    Since the subpoena duces tecum does not include a command for appearance, I declare the following day to be an office holiday. The boxes are all neatly stacked and waiting for the government officers to collect. Admittedly the boxes so jam the limited space in the outer office that it could prove to be difficult for the large officers to navigate their way in, but we are confident in their level of ingenuity. We could have made all of this difficult for the federal agents by filing protests and requests for delays; or we could have found small irregularities in the language of the subpoena; but we thought that would not have been right. Therefore, relaxing our vigilance over our rights, we have complied--and with alacrity.
    I, of course, do not hang around while my competent office staff does their work. I find Ivory and Caitlin and our newly purchased burner phones and voice distortion equipment, and we get to work.
    Ivory arranges a meeting with the Marcuses for the same afternoon. Caitlin calls the NYPD detectives and brings them up to date on our recent dealings with Whitehead and our plans to interview the Marcuses again and invites them to join us. I put in a call to Langley to talk to Sybil Norcroft, the DCIA. This time, I use her top secret identifier code and get right through.
    “McGee, this better be good,” she says by way of greeting.
    “And a fine day to you, as well, me fair lassie,”
    “I’m not in the mood for Irish malarkey. What do you need this time?”
    I know she’s very busy; so, I give her the condensed version. She is very interested in the direction the case is taking, but her greatest interest lies in her innate distrust and disdain for Secretary Robert Carter, US Department of Homeland Security. If he is involved and interfering, there just might be something worth her agency’s interest, especially if the Russians are included in the web of secrecy the autocratic Homeland Security department is weaving.
    “And you say that the NYPD detectives are working with your FBI agent friend to get the Russian police involved?”
    “Yes.”
    “We might be able to help. Give me a couple of days, all right? Sounds interesting.”
    As soon as we complete that round of calls, Ivory, Caitlin, and I discard the burner phones we use. One of Ivory’s men has taken a few burners around to the homes of our main staff people, and we do the business of the office via those phones for the next hour.
    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