Chapter 15

"Bankheist"

Arturo Estripe sat in his home study. His aging body and, in particular, cardiac problems would force him to retire from the FBI in the near future. He had lasted this long because he was not a field agent. His superiors praised him for his attention to administrative duties while he tiptoed through the quagmire called Washington politics. If only his admirers knew how he was undermining the very fabric of the country.

Arturo took his brandy glass and filled it with Remy Martin Louis XIII Cognac. When guests asked how he could afford cognac costing $3500 a bottle, Arturo would explain his friend Aries Pretturo gave it to him for Christmas.

His plan was coming together. It had taken longer than he thought it would. There were always hiccups to his plan, the most recent in New Jersey with Lee Sebring. Did Jeanne Ellen tell the doctor the fetus' father was the mother's half-sibling? Did the doctor ask the paternal grandfather's name? Arturo wasn't sure and a break-in of the doctor's office wasn't definitive. Fortunately, he was able to use Juan Diego Escalante, one of his Colombian sons for more than intimidation in South America. Juan Diego was known by two names depending on what South American country he was working. He was El Fantasma, the ghost, who could move through rural lands unseen, unheard, strike quietly. The police never found evidence to identify him. As El Contador, he was the urban enforcer or assassin. He was the CEO of a large corporation and considered deadly in negotiations. Arturo chuckled to himself, "If people only knew just how deadly he could be."

Juan Diego bore an uncanny resemblance to Carlos Manoso, a frequent thorn in the side of El Falcon's business enterprises in Central and South America for over a decade. Manoso and his team nearly stumbled into El Falcon's dealings in Nicaragua. The covert team of five Army Rangers and a Nicaraguan Intelligence officer, Colonel Raul Compos-Meijia, set out to find who was trying to take control of gold exploration and development in the country. They were getting close to discovering the players but were betrayed. As a US government liaison to Nicaragua, Arturo had been advised of the investigation and immediately took steps to stop it. After all, he was the one heading up the takeover. Arturo ended the investigation by offering Compos-Meijia one million American dollars to betray the Americans. The five Americans were captured, but two escaped. Manoso and the other two were sent to a prison camp to be interrogated and executed. Arturo took another sip of his brandy and murmured, "If only that bastard prison officer hadn't enjoyed torture so much and just eliminated the Americans, then Manoso would be a forgotten name, among many."

It was Arturo's attention to detail that kept Manoso and the US government from learning more about El Falcon. Eventually, Arturo learned how to distract the US government from his operations and into his competition. So in a way, the US Government helped Arturo and Adelante. The problem was the accumulated information. Arturo's contact in the military had successfully cleansed El Falcon and his associates' names from official records, but Manoso had his own records. Now, thanks to Lee and Jeanne Ellen, Arturo still had one more card up his sleeve to get into Rangeman's computer system. He could destroy the server thanks to explosive devices planted by his son, Gerald. Once Trenton was offline, access to Miami would be easy according to another son at NSA. All traces of El Falcon would be eliminated.

When the brandy was nearly finished, he took the glass to his desk. He had a little work to do before retiring for the night. Arturo logged into the Adelante accounts to check on a receipt of payment for arms to Africa. Four Islamic extremists groups were active in Africa: Al Qaeda, ISIS, Al Shabaab, and Boko Haram. Adelante was more than happy to keep all groups well supplied in arms. The more unrest he could maintain elsewhere, the more the world's interests were fractured and would not notice the signs of, or concentrate on, the upcoming revolution in the US.

Arturo sat stunned. The African arms account was empty. He suspected that Carlton and Gregory Simpson were dipping into the Adelante accounts, but up to now the losses had been negligible. Over the last few weeks, they had been growing, but now several million dollars were gone. He had heated words with the Senator from time to time about his son, Gregory. Carlton defended Gregory, citing increased business expenses for his staff. Now the whole account for "medical equipment" was missing. Perhaps it was already transferred to another account. He quickly logged into other accounts. They, too, were empty. He logged into his accounts in Hong Kong; he found all accounts were empty. Singapore was empty. Arturo's breathing became ragged. Bank of London, empty. Cayman Islands, Pretoria, Bogota, all empty. Arturo's chest began to constrict. This wasn't supposed to be possible. He had put in safety protocols to prevent this from happening. What had Gregory Simpson and his associates done? Did they change, remove or alter the protocols?

He lashed out, throwing the crystal brandy snifter against the nearby fireplace and very nearly sending his laptop computer after. Were his sons working with the Simpsons, attempting to take control early since Arturo's health diagnosis? Arturo reached for his phone. Who would he call? Who can he trust? He got to his feet and went across the room to the wall safe. He opened it and retrieved the codes to detonate the explosives at Rangeman. His movement would continue. Before he could retrieve anything his heart arrhythmia jumped into high gear and beat itself to death.

Eight hours later, his housekeeper found the dead man in his office/library, slumped to the floor by his desk. His brandy glass and laptop were completely smashed apparently in a fit of anger. That wasn't quite what happened. Soon after Arturo collapsed, the man watching through the window sent word access was clear. The security system was overridden, a team of professionals moved in. Arturo was carefully lifted returned to his desk but on the floor nearby. One of the men carrying him whispered to him, "Mossad thanks you for your generous monetary donations to the needy around the world. We are rounding up your bastard children and will dispose of them the way your father tried to dispose of us."

Arturo gasped and wailed his last sound. He knew he was defeated, just as his father had been defeated.

Care was taken to put Arturo exactly in the same position he assumed near the safe. Pathologists were getting good at detecting blood pooling within the body.

Documents in the open safe were removed and new ones added but only after first being well touched by the deceased man's hands. Cash and other personal items were left untouched. The safe was closed. The house was searched for more safes and they too were examined and documents and computer back up devices were removed, but jewelry, gold bars, and money were left behind. The laptop was stolen. Arturo's fingerprints were added to a new computer and then it too joined the brandy glass, smashed to bits. The hard drive was damaged beyond repair. As the team left, Hector Herrera, one of two Americans on the joint Mossad-American team, reset the security system. Once back into the aircraft returning to Trenton, the quiet IT specialist tilted his head to Lester Santos, the other American and whispered, "Eso fue justo." (That was righteous.) Lester nodded. He appreciated VC's efforts to get a few Rangemen in on the raid with Mossad.

-0-

I would have missed it if it hadn't been for my mystery messenger: ObitWPost.

At the bottom of the obituaries in the Washington Post was Arturo Estripe. I read in amazement: "Arturo Estripe, the long-time employee of the FBI was found dead in his office by his housekeeper. Preliminary information points to a cardiac incident. He began his career working as a liaison in several Central and South American countries before being assigned to the Washington office. Estripe never married. He had no family, devoting himself to his work and philanthropic activities." It was all I could do not to snort. Which work, FBI or Adelante? He had no family except for the several dozen children. What philanthropic work? Since when were arms dealing, human slavery, or world domination considered philanthropic?

I continued reading, "Estripe was recently diagnosed with a heart condition and was preparing to retire." Yeah, discovering his billions had disappeared probably broke his heart. His heirs would not be able to continue without money.

I wondered if the story was factual. I was expecting a burglary resulting in the death of the homeowner defending his property. This was so much cleaner and simpler.

I looked across the counter to the man whizzing a protein shake in the blender. "Ranger, did you sneak out two nights ago and go to Georgetown?"

He looked at me like I was nuts. He would have to have been Superman to fly to Washington and back. "Arturo Estripe died of a heart attack."

"What caliber?" he snorted.

"No, apparently it was natural."

"Happens," was his only comment. We looked at each other and mentally went through various ways to kill someone without leaving a trace. Forensics was making it harder and harder.

"It would be nice to know if anything was missing from his office files, for example, back up disks, or even his computer," Ranger mused.

I winked at him. I had a good idea who would be in charge of the B&Es and knew them to be thorough…all over the world.

Several days later, another message arrived: WashPost.

No buried story here, it was on the front page: Dual Murders of Prominent Family. "A family disagreement culminating in gunfire has resulted in the deaths of Former Senator Carlton Simpson and his son, Gregory Simpson. Gregory Simpson was dead at the scene; the Senator was pronounced DOA at Georgetown Hospital. The police confirmed weapons were found but declined to say more. Gregory Simpson was the owner and CEO of Paragon Financial Advisors in Washington, D.C." I skimmed the rest of the article including the Senator's lauded career in the US Senate until his unexpected resignation while I was recovering from Nicaragua. Rumors persisted that his resignation was part of a Pentagon scandal involving several Generals and Admirals.

Unlike Arturo's death due to emotional shock, the Simpsons had to be helped along. Before Arturo's "untimely" death, both the Senator and Gregory received untraceable messages with the same general content, "Trust no one, especially family," "Beware your employees are getting too nosey," and finally, the night of Arturo's death, "Bye-Bye Billions."

Thus, the usual level of paranoia associated with maintaining Adelante's empire ratcheted up to stratospheric levels until suddenly the money was gone. The Senator blamed Gregory for stealing the money just after Arturo died. Perhaps Gregory had a hand in Arturo's death. The men fought for several hours before hand weapons were drawn.

I hoped Ari was right: Stop the money, compromise the Adelante Empire and watch everything fall. Arturo and the Simpsons did not live to see the next assault on Adelante. The chaos caused by Arturo's sudden death, along with the Simpsons, sent the high-ranking offspring into a panic. Unlike the lesser children such as Lee Sebring, the high-ranking ones were to have been the country's new leaders. In their confusion, they blamed one another and did not see their own end coming.

1tiergone was the message that appeared about a week later. There was no flash in the news or web other than the loss of a White House adviser to the President killed in a car accident, alcohol was suspected. Was this the same man who slipped the listening device into the POTUS' pocket in Israel? Was it truly an accident, suicide or something else?

The message did say '1tiergone' so perhaps others were being discovered and...what? Dismissed, eliminated, arrested? It wasn't for me to know. All I could surmise was Estripe's oldest and highest-placed sons and daughters were being removed from positions of power. With their identities known, no government position, no money, and perhaps in jail or out on bail, they were helpless to carry on.

Ranger and I were still in hiding. Aside from eating and sleeping, all we had was reading, working out and long conversations. He was finally at ease with me and me with him. In one conversation, he admitted originally he considered me a threat to his command. Nearly falling off the chair in laughter, I asked him how.

"You outrank me."

"Are you kidding me, Manoso? You were in active service for six years. You've picked up a grade or two with your Black Ops but you were not leading battalions."

"What about you, Colonel?" he shot back. "What have you done to earn your rank?"

"I earned my silver eagle within command Intel United States Army Intelligence and Security Command (INSCOM). Hell, I might not even get a pension as I'll be kicked out shortly. So what the heck does it matter? I'm not after your job or your company. I might be looking for a job in the future. Think Rangeman has a use for a former Army Intelligence officer?"

"I suspect a dozen different companies will want you," he said offhandedly.

"Pierre and I have other plans. He wants to stay with Rangeman, not move to Washington. Maybe I'll take up knitting."

"You and Tank thinking about a family?"

"Yeah, right. What is the youngest age for a Colonel? Forty, forty-two, right? I was promoted just before my trip to Syria. I'm pushing forty-two and approaching the end of the reproduction line. Bearing a child now has too many risks. My internal injuries may have caused damage, the chemicals injected into me might be toxic to reproduction. I've never had marriage and babies anywhere on my radar. My life has been staying alive from one day to the next. Pierre has changed my outlook. Right now, let's finish this mission and then hash out our lives."

I waited a bit and continued, "We've talked about it before, but do your goals include Stephanie?"

"You were right, I haven't re-signed my contract. I'm getting too old for field work, but I still have enemies."

"And I don't? How many Arturo Estripe offspring are there in this country plus outside the country? If word ever gets out about my involvement, I'll be going around with a target on my back. It's not the first time, which is why I wanted to stay in service. Rank has some protection. Now I have nothing. I want peace for as long as I can get it. If it is a month, a year, ten years, fine. I should be dead many times over, but I'm here maybe for a reason. Maybe that reason is Pierre."

I continued, "You and Stephanie work well together. Make it a closer deal. Don't put off until tomorrow because tomorrow is not guaranteed. When your contract ends, live again. Live each day fully. Like the Nike ads: "Just Do It."

He accepted my bit of advice, which looking back was like two blind people comparing their views of the world…which neither could see. He finally asked, "What's next on this adventure?"

I told him the rest of the plan and his shoulders sagged, "I wish that wasn't necessary."

"It's the only way to keep my involvement obscure."

"What about the moles at Rangeman? You said you know who they are."

"Pierre is keeping an eye on Gerald and Thomas. I need them for an alibi. There are still a lot of Arturo's family and friends out there."

"I'm not surprised about Gerald. He's smart, but Thomas is a good soldier, follows direction and is competent."

Finally, the dreaded message came: Beatings.

"Ranger, it's time for the bad part."

He looked pained. "Do we really need to do this?" We had talked about my appearance when I was "found." It had to appear I wasn't vacationing at Club Med but rather held and interrogated for several weeks.

"Yeah, I'll have to start wearing my original clothes. They need to be stinky and bloody, ripe for delivery."

He nodded. He had been on missions where he hadn't changed clothes in weeks or months. "If you get too gamey I'll put a garbage bag over you," he smiled. His smile was half-assed at best.

"You aren't exactly ready for Gentleman's Quarterly right now either." He had let his facial hair grow. At the oceanside café, the beard was trimmed. He hadn't bothered since, nor had his hair been trimmed. He looked like he had been on a mission for weeks. Actually, he had.

"Tank will kill me," he sighed.

"And the others, but it needs to be done over the next couple of weeks for various injury stages. I can spar with you to start."

"Yeah, right."

"Don't underestimate us paraplegics. We can be sneaky. OK, how would you interrogate someone?"

"Face and body shots, but not to a woman."

"Sexist pussy, afraid to hit a girl."

He hauled back with a right cross. I saw stars. "I know your button."

"Only works once."

The next day I was on the floor working on several exercises when he walked by. I reached out, tripped him pulled myself onto his back with his right arm trapped in a painful handhold. He responded quickly and hard. I couldn't pull a reverse on him as I had only minimal leg action. I held his beard but slammed his head against the floor. He was stunned. "Sorry, didn't mean to get so real, I'm not able to move as well as before."

"Where'd you learn that?" he asked.

"Pierre, foreplay."

He laughed and I launched another attack. I used my elbow and so did he. I gave him a black eye, he split my brow. When we wound down, I knew I'd have some good rib bruises and hoped I left him with body bruises.

"You forgot about Billabong. I cleaned your clock back then."

"Yeah, I thought you got lucky. You know your stuff. When you get your legs back I'm going to have to up my game." He stood, "Need help back into the chair?"

Chair! What was I going to do with the chair? Would kidnappers remove me from the chair to beat me or hit me while I was in the chair? "When we get to the end, the chair will need a beat down too."

He looked confused.

"The chair will have to appear as if my kidnappers threw me down the steps while I was in the chair."

"Ah…"

"No, I'm not looking for a fun ride, just bend a wheel or spoke, tear some fabric. I've already bled a bit on it."

I hadn't been eating much since confinement began, explaining to Ranger a captive isn't fed well. He understood having been a captive in his career. "At least you won't get dysentery." When the time came for the bruises, I quit eating entirely.

"You are starving yourself, unwashed, bruises, what else?"

"Broken bones."

"No, I'm not comfortable with that," he said shaking his head and backing up.

"Tuff shit, mister. A rib or two and nose, can you do that, pussy?"

He laughed, "Pussy won't work a second time. When?"

"What can we do now that won't be too limiting but show up on X-rays later?" Moments later my left clavicle was cracked.

To create abrasions on my wrists like I had been tied, I abraded the skin around my wrists until they bled. He watched with pain in his eyes.

Two weeks later the message made me cringe: 5days.

"OK, Carlos, five days more. It's time to up the abuse."

"Damn," he muttered. After one particularly brutal "interrogation", he stopped and shook his head, "You can take a punch."

I chuckled, "Training officer at West Point: relax and take a punch."

The same men who dropped me off arrived with a new van. I was a mess, but not quite messy enough. Final sites to bruise were selected. Instead of relaxing and absorbing the assaults, I clenched adding to the bruising. I moaned after one particular blow, "Trust me, don't ever clench. Stay loose and let the body absorb." As I was about to leave, I pointed to my nose, "One last time for the cameras."

We had agreed to save the nose for last for yet another blood splatter. "Don't worry, soldier, I'll respect you tomorrow," I joked and I shut my eyes because I didn't want to see the pain in his eyes. I hoped the damage was repairable.

My two drivers stood off, knowing not to interfere. The younger one looked at Ranger and me with confusion in his eyes. The older one stood quietly and observed.

After it was done, Ranger watched me carefully for a moment and muttered, "I'm sorry I had to do that."

"It had to be done." My two "kidnappers" and I left. No words were spoken but I was wrapped in a plastic bag to contain the odor. I was offending myself through a broken nose.

This was a mission and we each had a job to do. Mine was to play dumb for whatever police agency would be involved. I needed a solid alibi while the destruction of Arturo's empire continued.

The ride to the new location was none too comfortable; broken nose, cracked, hopefully not broken, ribs, healing clavicle, bruises, abrasions, and clothes that would make a skunk run. The van stopped and I was pushed into a large enclosure without a roof. Perhaps it was a long-abandoned factory. I saw the lights flash, lightning was moving towards us.

The plastic bag was removed. I was sweaty adding to the aromatics.

"Gentlemen, thank you. After you dump me, take the chair and toss it aside. Twenty feet should be enough. Then you are dismissed."

Neither was surprised with the "dismissed" but nodded appropriately. "Colonel," the older one said as he left.

I was left alone, mostly on my right side, my hands tied together in front of me. The rains came not long after. Darn it was cold. I was past well drenched and no doubt hypothermic when I heard sounds, like scratching. I couldn't place them but then I wasn't fully conscious.

"What the hell? Is she alive?"

I felt a hand on my neck. I moved my head a bit. I forced my eyes open and to be greeted to sunlight shining off the puddles on the broken concrete floor. I was soaked to the skin from the rain and was still in a puddle. This was perfect as my clothes would bear no ocean salt though I was going to mislead the investigation away from Pennsylvania to the Eastern Shore. Also hopefully any trace of Manoso and others had been washed off.

Three teenagers gawked at me. One's hair was spiked upright, tipped in orange. His ears had several rings each. Another young man, younger, wasn't studded but his clothes were colorfully clashing. Another stood off to the side and said, "I'll call 911." A skate board was tipped up on its end. That was the sound. I was shivering so one boy took his jacket off and put it over my shoulders.

I mumbled, "I'm bloody."

He looked at me carefully, "I don't see any fresh blood."

"What's your name?" Mr. Earrings asked.

"Colonel...VC."

"You mean like Army colonel?"

I nodded through chattering teeth. I heard Mr. Telephone say something like, "She's a Colonel in the Army."

"Thank you for saving my life," I mumbled. I suspected my drivers were not far away and would have intervened if I wasn't found quickly. Still these young men deserved my gratitude.

Things got crazy. All manner of sirens were heard: police, firetruck and EMTs. It was all I could do to stay awake. I hoped they brought better and bigger blankets. This wasn't adrenaline burn-off, this was butt-freezing cold.

As one EMT cut off the cable ties, he kindly asked, "What is your name?"

"Colonel VC, US Army."

"VC?"

"Vassiliki Christofondolous."

The EMT chuckled, "My grandmother was a Vassi, I can spell most of your name."

"Are you in pain?" the other EMT asked.

I mumbled, "Too cold to hurt."

I felt some touching down below and figured they were wondering why my legs weren't moving.

"We need a backboard," said one EMT.

"I'm a paraplegic."

"Where's your chair?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"I see it over there," a fireman added.

"How long have you been here?" somebody asked. There were too many voices. I knew I was getting ready to pass out.

"Before the rain..." I answered, congratulating the team that planned this had the timing down to where I wasn't abandoned too long.

"We are taking you to a Trauma One hospital in Wilkes Barre, Colonel."

I guess Ranger was efficient. From then on, I remember little else until I was rolled into a nice warm building and warm blankets were put over me. Once at Wilkes Barre, I was X-rayed, CT scanned. Police asked questions, then someone slipped me a mickey because when I woke up the police were gone except for SGM Perkins representing Army CID, two local detectives, and an FBI agent.

"Colonel...Christof..." began the FBI agent. I calculated his age to be in his 50s, probably nearing retirement, chances were low he's one of Arturo's spawn. Still, I had to play it low key. I was hoping SGM Perkins had cleared him and if not, would run interference.

"Call me VC."

"Yes, ma'am."

The investigators wanted to know about the kidnapping. I remained mostly mute, "They wanted to know where Carlos Manoso is."

"Why?"

"He was their sacrificial lamb, but escaped."

"Why did they think you knew anything?"

"Mr. Manoso is part owner of a building in which I'm receiving rehab treatment. I've met him a few times."

"Why you?"

"Probably because I'm the only one in the building who doesn't work for him. I have no loyalties."

"Have you seen Mr. Manoso recently?"

I nodded no, "Not for some time." 'Some' being relative, I thought.

"Who were they?"

"No clue."

"Where did they take you?"

"From the Quaker Bridge mall I was blindfolded. I suspect we traveled for 40 minutes, maybe more."

"Describe where you were held."

"One room, maybe 8'x8', one high window for sunlight but I couldn't see anything, even if I could stand. The one door was metal; not new and not rusty which was surprising."

"Why?"

"I thought heard boat horns."

"Foghorns?"

"No, just tooting like signaling to one another. If I was close to the ocean, the metal door should have shown rust."

"Could they have been train whistles, like in a mine?"

"Maybe. I wish I had heard more."

"What else?"

"Mattress on the floor, slop bucket."

"How many people were involved?"

"Two guards, rotated, one interrogator. Mean SOB. He liked to hit."

"You seem pretty sure of your facts."

"What, that he liked to hit? I think that's obvious," I snapped as I winced.

"No, about your facts."

"Sir, I'm a trained observer and frankly there wasn't anything else to occupy my mind except how I was going to use the slop bucket...and wishing the blanket was thicker and cleaner."

"You don't seem too upset."

"You are wrong detective, I am upset. Upset because I'm in another fucking hospital, pardon my language. The Army unofficial motto is "Deal with it." From early training we are trained to endure. My head is killing me, I can't breathe through my nose. Deep breathing is out of the question. Nothing appears permanent. I know permanent injuries. I sit in a wheelchair."

SGM Perkins asked some useless but important sounding questions. I tried to answer but didn't have to fake being tired.

With the doctors and police, I couldn't talk with the SGM. Plus I needed sleep. After a quick check by the trauma doctor, I was sent to a room. Bobby, Pierre, and SGM Perkins appeared when I woke up.

I was confused. What were they doing in Pennsylvania? "Where?" I could only mutter.

"You are in Newark VA. SGM Perkins rode in with you. The Lawrenceville police wanted you in Trenton. I overrode their orders," Bobby answered.

"I was hoping that was stage makeup," Pierre said referring to my bruises.

"Remind me never to piss him off," referring to Ranger. Looking at the CID, "Sergeant Major, thank you for riding with me here. Your file is impressive."

"Ma'am, I won't ask how you've read my file since I've seen your other research. I feel like I've been used as a pawn."

"Hardly a pawn, Sergeant Major. You've had my flank. Sit Rep?"

"FBI is in turmoil. Actually, all of Washington is in turmoil. A lot of big names are caught in the spotlight."

"The agent in Wilkes Barre..."

SGM Perkins smiled, "Hector said he had 2 parents, 4 grandparents, average bank account, close to retirement."

"How is the family tree pruning going?" I asked SGM Perkins.

"I don't know if all members will be found in this country. We can't touch foreign countries other than to identify them and keep watch."

"But without funds…" I started.

"We hope enough have been eliminated but we won't know for a while."

I was glad someone else felt my same uncertainty.

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