Enemies Within

by J. S. Chapman

  The others were used to his folksiness and sarcasm, and showed it in their amused, almost tittering expressions. A sigh of relief rippled around the table. The balloon of formality had popped. Eric nodded pleasantly, almost like a department store Santa holding his toddler audience in command.

  “Full throated, Ms. Burke. No holds barred. Spill the beans. We await the drama. Do play on.”

  She nodded, swept her vision around the table, and found sympathy in every set of eyes. Relief washed over her. She closed the lid of her laptop. She didn’t need crib notes. The facts were in her head. She cleared her throat and began.

  “The money was moved around from bank to bank to bank. You’d think ... well, you’d think from the trouble they went to, that whoever was behind it was playing a game of hide-and-go-seek. But frankly―” She glanced around the table. All eyes were riveted on her.

  “Go on,” Frances encouraged her.

  “It’s been easy to follow the money trail.”

  “And you think this means ...?”

  “They wanted us to find it.”

  Frances’s eyes shot toward Eric, who slid his vision over to another man—Mark Privett—head of the Enforcement & Operations Division, the team focused on global terrorists and overseas insurgents.

  All of forty, Mark was soft-spoken, slim and trim, rusty-haired, and quietly observant, the kind of man who stayed in the background and did his job with quiet efficiency. In many ways, his department was the heart of the agency since it oversaw the collection and maintenance of worldwide data. With an engineering background, he knew his stuff backwards, forwards, and inside-out, and was the go-to man for making the data engine work at full capacity and without disruptive glitches.

  Even while holding his eyes on Cordelia, Mark hadn’t said a word. With a purposeful folding of his eyes, he gave her the signal to go on.

  She did. “Other than being shuffled between several Grand Cayman banks, the funds were also wired back to the States. Specifically to the bank account of Sintex Manufacturing, Incorporated, a tool-and-die manufacturer in Kansas City with a single officer and no employees. Sintex has filed no tax returns, exported no products, and lists no customers. In other words, it’s a holding company through which the funds were dumped and almost immediately transferred offshore. Several weeks ago, millions of dollars were transferred through Sintex to banks in Belize, Cyprus, the Isle of Man, and Switzerland. A sum of fifty million and spare change.”

  Everyone sat back, expelling collective sighs and exchanging calculated looks.

  “A business front for purposes of placement, layering, and integration,” Frances said.

  “Money laundering,” Cordelia acknowledged, knowing what it meant, and also knowing a cartel accountant must be behind it. In fact, his name was all over the official documents. “I know it’s an insignificant amount, relatively speaking, but with a twist.”

  “Enter the vanilla name wrapped inside a manila envelope,” Eric said.

  Cordelia nodded.

  “Leading you to certain suppositions, such as ...?”

  “Transferring the blame to an innocent party. A stooge.” She let this sit for a while before going on. “Illegal entities usually hide behind IBCs and bank trustees to shield the true owners. This account was held in a single man’s name. John Jackson Finlay. At first I thought he must be a hedge fund manager dodging taxes. Or a known criminal. Or the head of a suspected crime syndicate. Or the crooked officer of a domestic corporation or privately held company. Or associated with an international conglomerate. But I couldn’t trace him anywhere. No former domiciles or voter registrations. No credit cards or bank accounts other than the ones attached to these transactions. No work history. No arrest record. Not even a passport.”

  Cordelia believed in what she was doing. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be working in Washington or for MonCom. Instead, she’d be back in Chicago, employed as a certified public accountant on Wacker Drive and gunning for a partnership in ten, fifteen years. She chose to be here. The work was important, more important than signing off on corporate annual reports. Dangerous forces were at work, had always been at work, and would always be at work. And since money always drove the engines of crime, corruption, and terrorism, the Monetary Compliance Network was a crucial tool in fighting those dangerous forces. She wasn’t raw. She understood with grinding pessimism that fallible individuals comprised every government agency, including MonCom. She also understood people. No matter how high their motives, they didn’t always do the right thing for the right reasons. Righteousness for the sake of righteousness often moved like a ship in the night, unaware of the turbulence lying just ahead, and incapable of making a timely course correction. It was the groupthink that bothered her most, the tacit agreement of the quieter voices against the one or two louder ones. Since the cowardice of expediency could lead the ship of state toward moral decay, she feared a lone analyst wielded little influence against an entrenched power structure.

  She forged ahead anyway and with a thrill of eagerness said, “I found him. I found John Jackson Finlay.”

  Frances raised her eyebrows and said a nearly indistinct, “Oh?” She glanced around the table. Everyone except Taggert was just as clueless.

  Cordelia was feeling triumphant, almost giddy with excitement. With a sober voice she said, “John Jackson Finlay was adopted at the age of twelve by his mother’s brother and his wife.

  They still hadn’t made the connection.

  “His name was legally changed to John Jackson Coyote, but he goes by Jack.”

  Frances took an expectant pause. Slowly she nodded at the irony before saying a staid, “Go on.”

  Cordelia ran through the bullet points of Coyote’s biography. Prior to being arrested for murder, his only brush with the law was for speeding violations. Other than having a Native American heritage, he was just an ordinary hard-working guy whose technical expertise earned him a respectable salary.

  The vacuum whisked out of the room, bringing in fresh air along with a keen buzz of expectation. Time flitted by. The ticking of a distant clock marked out nearly a minute before Frances spoke again. “I believe a joint meeting with HID is in order, wouldn’t you agree?” She swept her eyes around the table. “Do you think we can get the ear of Salazar?”

  Eric shook his head. “Best bet is Brandon. We should also rope in Camilla Howden. You’ve met them, haven’t you, Cordelia?”

  “She hasn’t had the pleasure,” Taggert said.

  “High time she did.”

  Frances hadn’t spoken the phrase national security, but it was the usual reason for bringing in the Homeland Intelligence Division. Cordelia had been aware of the agency but didn’t know much about them until connecting the man with the vanilla name to Jack Coyote. She studied up. To her, the word homeland conjured up images of Nazi Germany, racial superiority, and world domination, memes that eventually doomed the Third Reich. HID had come into being two administrations ago, just another bureaucracy among thousands. Whenever awkward situations came up that couldn’t be handled inside normal channels without scrutiny, the Firm—as they liked to call themselves—took up the slack. It made sense even if bordering on impropriety. Extraordinary times required extraordinary measures, and what better way to take care of extraordinary problems than by tapping an agency little known by the public or the press.

  “I’ve met Blake Prendergast,” Frances said. “He’s senior liaison officer with the FBI. Let’s see if I can draw anything out of him. In a casual way. Without raising red flags.” She turned toward Eric. “Anything to add?”

  “Can I ask a question?” Cordelia said. “What’s going on? Why is this find so important?”

  Eric turned toward Frances and let out a ponderous sigh, shaking his head afterwards, a gesture of surrender. If Cordelia was going to be of any use, there was only so much they could keep from her.

  “You’ve heard about John Sessions?” Frances asked. “HID’s deputy director of their Technical B
ureau.”

  Cordelia slowly shook her head, fearing the explanation.

  “No, you wouldn’t have. It’s being kept quiet until his remains have been officially identified.”

  “Remains?” Cordelia asked, already in disbelief.

  “Late last night, he jumped off the roof of HID headquarters. Making things even more interesting, he was Jack Coyote’s supervisor. With a layer in between. Liz Langdon, I believe her name is.” She looked toward Eric and Mark for confirmation.

  “What’s your verdict?” Eric asked. “Jumped or pushed?”

  “Hell, he didn’t jump.” Frances turned toward Cordelia. “We might want to send you abroad. Do you have a problem with that? Personal conflicts. Family obligations?”

  “None, but―”

  “But what?”

  “Are we going to show HID our hand?” Cordelia asked.

  “They aren’t the enemy.” Frances smiled cattily, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Then it’s settled. We’ll give them a briefing of our findings and see how they react. I’ll let you do the honors, Ms. Burke. Today’s best. Call it a fire drill. They’ll be none too happy having us bang down their door today of all days, but let’s see if we can rattle some cages.

  “And Russia?” Cordelia ventured. “How exactly does that fit in?”

  “Russia,” said Frances said, “always fits in one way or another. But let us say that we’ve detected a dramatic increase of cyber warfare directed against key departments, and the signals point toward our old foe.”

  “If I can interject,” Taggert said, his eyes sliding sideways. “Cordelia has a flight to Kansas City first thing tomorrow. She’s meeting with the accountant who set up the shell company.”

  “And you think he’s the cartel accountant?” Frances asked.

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  As soon as she returned to her soft-sided cubicle with its arrangement of personal items that were supposed to give it a semblance of hominess, Cordelia called Liz Langdon, filled her in on the vanilla name wrapped inside the manila envelope, and requested an emergency meeting between their two agencies. “Today would be best. I’m heading out of town tomorrow.”

  Langdon was more than interested in her findings. She told her she would get back to her within the hour. “You’ve heard about our associate? John Sessions. He―” She couldn’t go on.

  “May I offer my ... our ... condolences.” Cordelia tried to sound sympathetic. “This must be a trying time. I wouldn’t have called on a day like today, but time is of the essence. For you as well as for us.”

  Langdon took a moment to compose herself. When she spoke, her voice was strained but disciplined. “I’ll inform my people and get back to you with a time.”

  When Cordelia hung up, she realized something. From here on out, she wasn’t going to get a hell of a lot of sleep.

  13

  George Town, Grand Cayman

  Monday, August 11

  JOHN FOX STROLLED into the Cayman branch of the British-based Hertford’s bank and asked to speak to an official about the account of his client. He presented identification naming him as the designated representative of John Jackson Finlay. After studying his bona fides, Hertford’s referred him to a building one block away, where two financial institutions took up rental space behind a single glass door.

  After Fox related his circumstances at Cayman BWI Trust, Ltd. and patiently observed the efficient vice president key information into the monitor before her, he was directed across the hall with a flourish of her blue-tipped fingernails. CapTrust Cayman Shores, she explained, had coordinated all financial arrangements between Sintex Manufacturing and Kansas City Federalist Bank on his client’s behalf.

  He was mustered through a gauntlet of desks before being shown into the private office of Keri Parris. According to the nameplate outside her door, Parris acted as Vice President of Trustee Services. Carrying with her the insouciance of privilege, she came around her executive-style desk with an outstretched hand. Her suit was of impeccable taste and fitted quite nicely over a runner’s body. Her legs went on and on, ending in high-heeled shoes that made her three inches taller than her already exalted five-feet-eight height. She didn’t smile. She didn’t blink. She didn’t glance away from his direct gaze. She asked him to sit, skirted around the imposing desk, and sat forward, hands folded before her, her wavy brown hair falling to the point of her chin and no farther. Her fingernails were cut short, unadorned by nail polish, and her person likewise unadorned by jewelry of any kind. Her desk was as impeccable as she was, layered with phone, computer monitor, and neatly stacked file folders. “Now, sir, how may I help you?” She held her head high and her chin level. She was formal and stiff, and regarded him with cool indifference.

  A man of impeccable taste himself and dressed in a business suit purchased just for this occasion, Fox explained that his client’s funds, originally adding up to fifty million American dollars, had been transferred from Cayman BWI Trust into the supervision of Ms. Parris’s establishment. “I recently spoke with the vice president of Customer Affairs over there, a very pleasant lady. You’re probably acquainted.”

  Parris acknowledged their association with a telling blink. She was stiff as a picket fence and just as unbendable, a chary woman, distant, and schooled to keep her thoughts and emotions hidden beneath a veneer of impenetrability.

  Fox went on. “She confirmed the full amount was transferred to CapTrust approximately one month ago before the bulk was wired back the States. I’m here to collect the balance. A hundred thousand, according to our records, including any interest accrued.”

  Her pale eyes barely blinked. The placid face remained stoic. She spread her hands apart, fingertips lightly tapping the desktop, their slight agitation indicating her interest, or perhaps impatience, possibly both. Taken together, the nuances of her demeanor expressed skepticism along with contempt. Perhaps all bankers—even pretty lady bankers—viewed their customers with skepticism and contempt as if they were budding bank robbers. “Naturally we require identification,” she said, smiling.

  It was the first time her lips curled upward. Her teeth were white and even, her dimples delightful. A small mole near the corner of her mouth was the only noticeable flaw of her otherwise fetching face.

  “Naturally,” he said, parroting her inflection. He clicked open a newly purchased briefcase and presented a passport, an airline receipt, a copy of his client’s birth certificate, and an affidavit signed by his client, which authorized John H. Fox as his duly appointed agent for all matters pursuant.

  Ms. Parris inspected everything with interest before smiling more broadly than before. “I believe we can get you on your way quite soon. How would you like the funds disbursed?”

  “By EFT to this account.” He presented the necessary paperwork.

  The smile again, warm and friendly. He watched her leave the glass-enclosed office, admiring the pumping action of her shapely calves as they sashayed in the direction of the main lobby.

  Ten minutes later she returned, clearly flustered. She sat with aplomb, primly tucking her skirt beneath her and folding her hands on the desktop. “Mr. Fox, I regret to inform you that the funds have been withdrawn. Only a nominal amount remains.”

  “Nominal?” he asked.

  “The equivalent of five thousand American dollars.” Her words came out mechanically, absent emotion, as if she were relating a death in the family.

  “And the balance?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I wouldn’t ask if I did.”

  “I don’t think I understand. Surely, you would know the funds were wired to another institution Monday last.”

  “I don’t wish to be rude, Ms. Parris, but I know nothing.”

  His statement disconcerted her. She went on the defensive. “We received instructions over a week ago. Everything was confirmed. If you didn’t send it, then―”

  Her eyes held his gaze until a nearly indiscernible movement of h
er focus glanced past him and above him. He jerked around in his chair and looked through the glass-plate window into the hall at his back, bustling with bank personnel and customers. He saw no one suspicious, no one staring back at him, no one grinning at him with a crazed grin.

  “Is something the matter, Mr. Fox?”

  He jerked back around and collected himself, clearing his throat. “Where were the funds sent? Precisely?”

  Contrary to her expression of concern ... Is something the matter, Mr. Fox? ... her face was glacial. “Per your client’s instructions, the funds were wired to a financial institution in Nauru.”

  He noticed an upper tooth was slightly crooked. It was almost endearing, almost made her seem human instead of an android, but not quite. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of ... Nauru, is it? ... do I have that right?”

  He lied to her. He had heard of it. Rupert mentioned it. An island in the South Pacific known for money laundering. Money trails, Rupert had said, went through it, almost like ghosts, and disappeared.

  The banker was flustered, off her game. “I ... I believe ... that is ... it’s an island nation in the South Pacific.” Her voice was constrained and high-pitched, very unlike the level tones with which she had greeted him earlier. “I hope this won’t cause any difficulties. We pride ourselves on our fiduciary responsibilities. We have checks and balances in place to assure all accounts are handled with the utmost care.” She spoke the words as if they had been memorized from a handbook on how to deal with difficult clients and embarrassing situations.