On his way out, he turned his phone back on. The display told him he’d gotten another voicemail from Jackson. He ignored it.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The next morning, Vermeulen took the subway to Dufaux’s office. Like the other UN offices, it was located in the Vienna International Centre, a modernist edifice built in the 1970s, when massive concrete and glass structures were still considered the epitome of good architectural taste. Situated on the large island between the Old and New Danube arms, it consisted of a jumble of skyscrapers grouped around a vast circular wading pool surrounded by the almost two hundred flags of the UN member states. The buildings varied in height but had the same shape—curved façades butting into concrete shafts. Fortunately, Dufaux had given Vermeulen instructions on how to get to his office. Otherwise, he would have lost his way in the maze of forty-five hundred offices housed in the complex.
He finally made it to the twenty-fifth floor of the right building. Dufaux waited for him at the elevator. He was a bit shorter than Vermeulen and had a clean-shaven, open face and well-coiffed gray hair. A tailored gray suit and tie gave him that confident yet patient appearance that was the hallmark of successful diplomats. Vermeulen could imagine him negotiating with an odious dictator without ever losing his cool.
“Welcome to UN City,” Dufaux said. “Once you are inside, you don’t have to look at it. Instead, you have a nice vista of the rest of the city.”
He was right. From the twenty-fifth floor, Vermeulen saw Vienna spread out in the sunlight, reaching to the horizon. The city had a squat quality to it. Except for the soaring tower of St. Stephen’s Cathedral and a handful of other tall structures, it looked solid and close to the ground. The world around it might be in upheaval, but Vienna wouldn’t budge.
“Yup, that’s Vienna,” Dufaux said, noticing Vermeulen’s gaze. “As Fritz Molden once quipped, nothing has changed in a century, except that the emperor doesn’t come anymore.”
“Who’s Fritz Molden?”
“A resistance fighter and diplomat of the early years after World War Two. He’s still alive and known for his bons mots.”
“Where are we meeting the assistant?”
“There’s a little café near the entrance. It won’t be busy yet.”
“A café?” Vermeulen was expecting an interrogation room.
“Yes. Let me remind you again that what we are doing is in total violation of the rules. So we have to play nice. The moment she suspects she’s in trouble, she’ll clamp shut like a bad mussel. And she has every right to do that. So let’s be diplomatic.”
“Okay, I promise to be on my best behavior. Could you check something else for me? The man who left the threatening note with Gaby drove away in a car with the license WD-99530. I understand that’s a UN plate. I need to know who is driving that car.”
“Sure, no problem.”
Frau Waldmüller, the executive assistant to Frank Wilmot, the deputy director of the UN Environment Programme, was the consummate office manager. She radiated efficiency. In her late forties, she was well dressed, a bit overweight, and sported a no-nonsense, short haircut. She seemed at a loss as to why the head of the OIOS had asked her to the café. Dufaux offered her one of the three cups of coffee he’d brought to the table.
“Good morning, Frau Waldmüller. This is my colleague Vermeulen from New York. He’s investigating a case and thinks you might be able to help him.”
Vermeulen was a little surprised that Dufaux wasn’t taking the lead. It was his jurisdiction, after all. Maybe he wanted to deflect responsibility if this interview didn’t work out. Vermeulen had wondered if the best approach was to ask general questions and then slowly move to the fake letters or confront her right away. He was leaning toward the latter, if only because he had so little time. But that tactic could backfire quickly. And Dufaux didn’t seem to want to get involved.
“Good morning,” Vermeulen said. “Thanks for coming to meet with us. I have a bit of a problem. I’m investigating a case that involves the use of forged UN documents.”
He watched her face, but didn’t see any reaction.
“I don’t see how I could help with that,” she said. “I work in Vienna, not New York.”
“Let me be more specific. The documents were invitation letters that were used to obtain visas to the U.S. fraudulently. The U.S. authorities are quite upset and blame the UN.”
She looked at him with a blank expression, but didn’t say anything.
“Some of those letters are on the letterhead of the UN Environment Office in Vienna and signed by your boss, Wilmot.”
He saw a quick flash in her eyes.
“I can’t believe that Mr. Wilmot would do something like that. It must be a forgery.”
“We are certain it is his signature. He has seen the letters and attested to that. But he doesn’t remember signing them.”
“He signs so much correspondence. He wouldn’t remember a single letter,” she said.
“That’s what we assumed. Don’t you usually bring him the letters to sign?”
She put her cup down. Her face vacillated between anger and puzzlement.
“What are you saying?”
“We have reason to believe that you helped with the forged documents.”
Waldmüller’s anger took over. “I have worked here for fifteen years. Three different departments. All my reviews have been positive. I won’t sit here and have you accuse me of violating my duties.”
This was the moment Vermeulen had feared. The woman looked genuinely angry. If he pushed any further, Dufaux’s warning would come true. She’d simply get up and file a complaint.
“Nobody is accusing you of anything,” Dufaux said. “If this were an official investigation, we’d be meeting in my office, not in a café. We’re hoping you could help us find the people behind the scheme.”
Vermeulen shot him a grateful look. Dufaux had set the right tone.
“I don’t know anything about letters and I want to leave now. If you wish to speak to me further, I’d like a representative from the ombudsman’s office here.”
“We had hoped we could avoid those formalities,” Dufaux said.
“Those ‘formalities,’ as you call them, are there for the protection of employees. I have a spotless record and I won’t have it sullied by an investigator from New York. If you are accusing me, I want a record of anything that is said.”
This woman was tough. Undoubtedly, she had to be to manage her job in such a busy office. Bullying her wouldn’t do. She knew her rights and would stonewall until it was too late.
“We’re not interested in you, Frau Waldmüller,” Vermeulen said. “We only want the people behind the scheme.”
“Well, that may be reassuring, but I don’t know what you are talking about. Are we done?”
She rose to leave. Vermeulen made one last attempt. “Do you have children, Frau Waldmüller?”
She hesitated a moment.
“Yes, a son.”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Just a year older than my daughter. Let me tell you about my daughter.”
Frau Waldmüller sat down again.
“I was in the middle of the investigation that involved the forged letters. Just after I confronted one of the gangsters, I found out that my daughter had a skiing accident. She is in a coma, in a hospital right here in Vienna.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Her expression changed from ambivalence to concern.
“The doctors expect her to recover. But in the meantime, the gangsters have found out I came to Vienna. They have located my daughter and have threatened her.”
Frau Waldmüller sucked in her breath. “That’s awful.” She took a sip of coffee.
“Tell me about your son, Frau Waldmüller.”
“Please leave my son out of this. He’s none of your business.”
“I’m sure you care about your son as much as I care about my daughter. If he were in
danger, wouldn’t you do what you could to protect him?”
Her eyes were the tell. He’d hit on something, but he didn’t know what.
“I’m not here to accuse you or cause you trouble,” he continued. “I just want to protect my daughter. To do that, I need your help.”
“I’d like to help you,” she said, “but I haven’t forged any letters and I don’t know anything about the people who threaten your daughter. Can I go now?”
“If your son were in the same situation, wouldn’t you move heaven and earth to help him? That’s all I’m doing.”
There was that expression again. Something was going on with her son. An idea formed in his head. It was worth a try.
“Frau Waldmüller. Has your son asked you to get Mr. Wilmot’s signature on those letters?”
She shook her head, but didn’t say anything. Her face twitched. She was fighting with herself.
“Let me rephrase that question. Has your son introduced you to someone who asked you to get those letters signed?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Please, I need to know who that man is. My daughter’s life is at stake. I promise you, nothing will happen to you. Right, Pierre?” He looked at Dufaux.
“Of course,” Dufaux said. “You’ll have to tell us everything, but I think we can keep this quiet.”
“What about Mr. Wilmot?” she said.
“I can’t promise I won’t tell him, but if it’s just a couple of letters, I think we can leave him out of the loop.”
“I’ve never worked for anyone as nice and considerate as Mr. Wilmot,” she said. “I would die of shame if he found out.”
“Why don’t you tell us what happened?” Vermeulen said.
“My son isn’t a bad person, but he’s always running around with a bad crowd. He was a good boy. Good in school, playing soccer afterward. Then my husband up and left. Just disappeared. Didn’t even bother to file for a divorce. I had to do that after I hadn’t heard from him in five years. I tried so hard.”
She took a tissue from her purse and blew her nose.
“I couldn’t do it all. A boy needs a good man in his life. He got bad grades. University was out of the question. Then he sold hashish, got caught, put on probation. I thought that would scare him, but it didn’t. He got in deeper and deeper.”
She drank from her cup and looked out the window. The tears flowed again.
“I hadn’t seen him in weeks. Then one day he came home with this man. He said that he was in trouble and the only way out was for me to get those letters signed. I told him I couldn’t do it. That I liked my job, that I’d be fired if anyone ever found out. He told me nobody would find out and that it was just a few letters.”
“Did he tell you what these letters were for?” Vermeulen said.
She shook her head.
“How many of them did you get Wilmot to sign?”
“I don’t know, maybe thirty. It wasn’t a regular matter. Sometimes I wouldn’t hear from the man for a few weeks. Other times, he’d come with three or four letters at once.”
“What’s his name?”
“He never gave me a name. He always meets me on my way to work, on the subway. He sits next to me and leaves a bag with a brown envelope containing the letters when he gets up. He picks them up the same way when I go home.”
“When did you last see him?”
“This morning.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Dr. Rosenbaum went over his schedule of surgery. It was a light day. Two regular ones in the morning and one of the brokered transactions in the afternoon. There was always aftercare, but that wasn’t too taxing. The news that the pesky UN investigator had left the country had put him in a better mood than he’d been in for a long time. Even the buzzing of the intercom didn’t dampen that feeling.
“Doctor, there is a Mr. Woodleigh waiting for you.”
“I don’t recognize the name. Is he a patient? He’s not on my calendar for today.”
“I know. He says he needs a transplant.”
Rosenbaum sighed. “He’s not the only one. Send him in.”
The man who appeared in his office was of medium height, very tan, with a shaven head that gleamed. Despite the tan, Rosenbaum could tell he wasn’t well. His cheeks were hollow and his eyes had a yellow tinge.
“How can I help you, Mr. Woodleigh?”
“I need a kidney.”
“Please, have a seat. You’ve come to the right surgeon, Mr. Woodleigh. Kidneys are my specialty. I assume you’ve had the necessary consultations to ensure that a transplantation is right for you. Are you on a waiting list?”
Settling in the chair across from Rosenbaum’s desk, the man said, “Yes, I’ve already gone through one kidney and the current one is failing. I’m not going back on dialysis.”
“Where have those transplantations been performed?”
The man shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “One in Switzerland and the other in Los Angeles.”
“Have your doctors determined the reason for the failures?”
“Yes, AMR something, something.”
Rosenbaum made a steeple with his fingers and looked up at the ceiling. “Antibody-mediated rejection, how unfortunate. It is a big hurdle we face in our profession.”
“Spare me the medical talk. I know what I need, a perfect match.”
Rosenbaum raised his hand. “Can you tell me how long the first kidney lasted?”
“A little over a year.”
“Hmm,” Rosenbaum said with a smile of encouragement. “That’s actually a bit of good news. Yours seems to be a case of chronic AMR. That gives us some wiggle room. How long since you received your current kidney?”
“Nine months.”
“That’s to be expected. The failure of the transplants is directly related to your immune system. Your body produces these antibodies to combat what it considers an invasion of human leukocyte antigens, most likely class one and class two of the major histocompatibility complex. Each subsequent transplantation faces an even larger army of antibodies.”
The man drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “You don’t have to repeat what my doctors have told me already.”
“I’m trying to tell you that with a proper desensitization therapy before your next transplant, you may see much better results.”
“Ha,” Woodleigh snorted. “You think you’re the only kidney pro in the country. It’s too late for that therapy. My current kidney isn’t going to last long enough. I need a kidney from a donor who’s both ABO blood type and HLA matched. That’s why I’m contacting you.”
“That’s flattering, but you know that even with paired exchanges, there will be an unknown wait time for such a specific match. As you are on a waiting list, you must know that.”
Woodleigh leaned forward. “I’m willing to pay to make that time as short as possible.”
“That doesn’t change anything. No country in the world permits the buying or selling of organs. No country, that is, except Iran.”
“I’m not going to the mullahs for a transplant. Forget that. I’m asking you. I know you can help.”
Rosenbaum stood, as if the appointment were over. “I can help only when there is a kidney. Without it, my skills are of no use.”
“A good friend of mine tells me that you have ways to make such a kidney appear.”
Sitting again, Rosenbaum asked, “And who might that friend be?”
“Samir Rashad, the network king.”
“Ah, I do remember Mr. Rashad. Are you in the same line of business?”
“Yes. I do the software side; he does the hardware side. We are competitors, but also friends. He spoke highly of you. He told me that for the right sum, you could make the waiting time disappear.”
“And what sum did you have in mind?”
At a gut level, the Broker scared the hell out of Rosenbaum. She was everything he was not—tough, determined, ruthless. He knew she’d have him killed if he ever
got in her way. She might even do it herself. But there were moments when that very quality attracted him. She was so different from Mitzi and her charities, her shopping, her craving to be seen in the company of the rich. There was a raw beauty about the Broker that was far more pleasant to look at than Mitzi’s carefully maintained face that always needed buffing and still looked like it might crack if she ever laughed spontaneously. This evening meeting was such a moment. His good mood and the good news that came out of the afternoon appointment with Mr. Woodleigh were definitely responsible for that. The excellent Pinot Grigio and her pleasant demeanor were icing on the cake.
“So the man just walked into your office and offered you a million dollars for a matching kidney?” she said.
“He did.”
“And you weren’t concerned that it was a setup? How did he know you could get a matching kidney outside the normal channels?”
“I was concerned, of course. But he was referred by Rashad. He’s a software billionaire in Silicon Valley. He’s regularly in the headlines. There’s no way he’s playing informer for the police.”
“Your caution is very much appreciated. We need to avoid any attention, particularly after the earlier mishaps. What do you need from me?”
“I need a perfect match, and it has to come from a living donor.” He handed her a printout. “Here’s the pertinent information, blood group, HLA and MHC data. I need it fast. But for five hundred thousand, you can make it happen, right?”
“I’ll send out the request immediately. Our associate in Nairobi is just tapping into a new pool of candidates. It’s a medical testing station in one of the slums. They collect meticulous data on each person tested, and our associate has access to that. It shouldn’t take more than a week to find a suitable candidate. Without bureaucratic mishaps, you could have that kidney here in ten to fourteen days.”
Illicit Trade Page 13
