Fordyce nodded, taking the hand.
“Thanks for being a sport,” he said, giving Fordyce a friendly pat on the back as he exited the office.
Fordyce paused outside the door of the warehouse, gulping air as he walked toward his car. He felt slightly sick. His career was over. Millard was right: he had fucked up big time. Once again, he felt a swelling of black anger at Gideon Crew.
But along with the anger came a certain uneasiness. Again. It always came down to two things. The biggest was Gideon leaving incriminating emails on his work computer. The more Fordyce had seen Gideon in action, the more he’d realized the guy was as smart as hell. The computer wasn’t the only evidence against him, apparently: they had found a Qur’an and prayer rug in his cabin, along with some DVDs of radical Islamic preachers. But those discoveries, too, gave him pause. They seemed lame. Because at the same time, the CIA hadn’t been able to break into Gideon’s RSA-encrypted, security-protected home computers, despite the most sophisticated hacking tools in the toolkit of the CIA. A guy that careful, and that good, would not leave jihadist DVDs lying around.
The second was that Gideon had sabotaged the plane, putting himself at risk. Sure, if he were a jihadist he’d be looking for martyrdom. But he remembered Gideon during that flight; the guy was genuinely terrified.
He paused. If Gideon had been dirty, Fordyce felt sure he would have sensed it, felt somethingwas wrong. But he hadn’t. The guy felt genuine.
Maybe he hadn’t fucked up, after all. Maybe everyone else had. Maybe Gideon hadbeen framed.
With a muttered curse, he resumed walking to his car. He had his gun, badge, and a few days to satisfy himself whether or not Gideon really was guilty.
52
Fordyce consulted the GPS built into his pool vehicle. The house was in a cul-de-sac, with pine forest and mountains rising up behind. It was well after midnight but the lights were on, the blue flicker of a TV seen through the gauzy curtains. The Novaks were still up.
This was clearly one of the prime lots of the suburban neighborhood: the last house on a dead-end lane, bigger than the others. Not to mention the Mercedes in the driveway.
He drove in, blocking the Mercedes, then got out and rang the bell. A moment later a woman’s voice asked who it was.
“FBI,” said Fordyce. He unfolded his shield, showed it through the narrow side window.
The woman opened the door immediately, almost breathlessly. “Yes? What is it? Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine,” said Fordyce, stepping inside. “Sorry to be bothering you at such a late hour.” She was a fine-looking woman, very fit, trim little waist and a shapely butt, great skin, wearing white slacks and a cashmere sweater with pearls. Funny outfit for midnight television.
“Who is it?” came an irritated voice from what appeared to be the living room.
“FBI,” the woman called back.
The TV went off immediately and Bill Novak, the head of security in Crew’s department, emerged.
“What is it?” he asked matter-of-factly.
Fordyce smiled. “I was just apologizing to your wife for the late hour. I have a few questions of a routine nature. It won’t take long.”
“No problem,” said Novak. “Come in, please, sit down.”
They went into the dining room. Mrs. Novak turned on the lights. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”
“Nothing, thanks.” They all sat down at the table and Fordyce looked around. Very tasteful. Expensive. Some old silver on the dining table, a few oil paintings that looked like the real thing, handmade Persian rugs. Nothing outrageous—just expensive.
Fordyce took out a notebook, flipped over the pages.
“Do you need my wife?” Novak asked.
“Oh yes,” said Fordyce. “If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
They seemed eager to please, not nervous. Maybe they didn’t have anything to be nervous about.
“What is your annual salary, Dr. Novak?” Fordyce asked as he looked up from his notebook.
A sudden silence. “Is this really necessary?” the security head asked.
“Well,” said Fordyce. “This is strictly voluntary. You’re under no obligation to answer my questions. Please feel free to call your attorney if you desire legal advice or wish him or her to be present.” He smiled. “One way or another, however, we would like your answers to these questions.”
After a pause, Novak said, “I think we can proceed. I make a hundred and ten thousand dollars a year.”
“Any other source of income? Investments? Inheritance?”
“Not to speak of.”
“Any overseas accounts?”
“No.”
Fordyce glanced at the wife. “And you, Mrs. Novak?”
“I don’t work. Our finances are mingled.”
Fordyce made a note. “Let’s start with the house. When did you buy it?”
“Two years ago,” said Novak.
“How much did it cost, what was your down payment, and how much did you finance?”
Another long hesitation. “It was six hundred and twenty-five thousand, and we put down a hundred and financed the rest.”
“Your monthly payments?”
“About thirty-five hundred dollars.”
“Which comes to, what, about forty-two thousand per year.” Fordyce made another note. “Do you have any children?”
“No.”
“Now let’s talk about your cars. How many?”
“Two,” Novak said.
“The Mercedes and—?”
“A Range Rover.”
“Their cost?”
“The Mercedes was fifty, the Range Rover about sixty-five.”
“Did you finance them?”
A long silence. “No.”
Fordyce went on. “When you bought your house, how much did you spend on new furnishings?”
“I’m not really sure,” said Novak.
“For example, these rugs? Did you bring them from your previous residence or purchase them?”
Novak looked at him. “Just what are you driving at?”
Fordyce allowed him a warm, friendly smile. “These are nothing more than routine questions, Dr. Novak. This is how the FBI starts almost any interview—with financials. You’d be amazed how quickly one can smoke out someone living beyond their means with just a few simple questions. Which is alarm number one in our business.” Another smile.
Fordyce could see signs of tension in Novak’s face for the first time.
“So…the rugs?”
“We bought them for the new house,” Novak said.
“How much?”
“I don’t remember.”
“And the other furnishings? The silver collection? The wide-screen TV?”
“Mostly bought when we purchased the house.”
“Did you finance any of these purchases?”
“No.”
Another notation. “You seem to have had a lot of cash on hand. Was there a legacy involved, lottery or gambling winnings, an investment coup? Or perhaps family help?”
“Nothing significant to speak of.”
Fordyce would have to plug the figures into a spreadsheet, but already they were at the outer limits of what was readily explainable. A man making a hundred grand a year would be hard-pressed to buy the cars he had around the same time he was making a down payment on his house, and paying cash on top of everything else. Unless he’d made a real estate killing on his previous house.
“Your previous house—was it nearby?”
“It was over in White Rock.”
“How much did you sell it for?”
“About three hundred.”
“How much equity did you have in that house?”
“About fifty, sixty.”
Only fifty or sixty. That answered that question. There wasunexplained wealth.
Fordyce gave Novak another reassuring smile. He flipped the pages of his notebook. “Now, getting to these emails that were found in Crew’s account.”
Novak looked relieved to see the change in subject. “What about them?”