Mary said, “And just how am I supposed to convince my captain to let me go to San Francisco to follow a lead we obtained illegally?”
“You don’t have to,” Chavez said. “I’ll go. I don’t need to get permission. I’m already handling the fraud case.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Leopold said. “Do you mind if I tag along?”
“Not if Mary doesn’t object.”
She said, “Please take him. Don’t feel you have to bring him back.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Chavez counted silently as he walked down the aisle. 1-C, 2-C, 3-C, 4-C, 5-C.5-C. That can’t be right, Chavez thought. He hadn’t yet passed the curtain that divided the entitled first class from the peons in coach.
Leopold occupied 5-D. “I took the liberty of upgrading you. I wanted to talk during the flight and I have no intention of sitting in coach.”
“Gee, thanks. The Bureau never lets me fly first class. You ever see that TV show where the FBI agents all fly around in a private jet? Total bullshit.” Chavez stowed his bag and took his seat next to Leopold. Jerome sat ahead in 4-D.
A flight attendant with a first class (not coach) smile offered the men drinks. Leopold ordered a Chardonnay. On duty, Chavez settled for an orange juice. Jerome declined a drink.
Once they were served, Leopold said, “Let me see if I understand. Basically, someone committing insurance fraud in San Francisco sent the money to a bank in Singapore. The money is then sent from Singapore to New York to fund the dating service being used to recruit domestic terrorists. Have I got that right?”
“Right as rain. Using banks in Singapore makes it tricky to gather evidence. They can be very secretive.”
“You know what they say. Singapore is the new Cayman Islands. It’s a haven for tax evasion and money laundering. There’s a lot of dirty money flowing through that town.”
Chavez raised an eyebrow. “And you know that how? Something you want to confess?”
Leopold didn’t answer. Instead, “It may not be as difficult as you might think. I do a fair amount of business with the Singaporean banking system. They might be more forthcoming with me. I’m not someone they want to piss off. So what are you hoping to find in San Francisco, anyway?”
“The fraud operation has already been shut down by one of the insurance companies being scammed. I want to check out the evidence they’ve gathered first hand. Gil DiMauro is the senior investigator for Bremler Mutual. He’s the guy who figured out the scam in the first place. The perps got away, but DiMauro met them, so I’m hoping he can help us locate them.”
“Is this DiMauro any good?”
Chavez took a moment to consider the question. “Honestly, he’s probably the best fraud man I’ve ever worked with. He sends a lot of work my way. He can sniff out a scheme a mile away and figure how it’s done in no time.”
“But?” Leopold had registered the hesitation.
“Well, he’s smart, but he’s just not that motivated. Maybe that’s a good thing. If he were more ambitious, he might decide working the other side of the law was more lucrative. He’d make one hell of a con man.”
“Does he know we’re coming?”
“I spoke to his boss. She’s an ex-cop from New York. We’ll meet them both tomorrow at the Bremler office.”
The flight attendant collected glasses, and the captain’s voice came over the intercom, telling passengers the plane would be taking off shortly.
Chavez rapped his fingers on the armrest nervously for a while. Then he leaned in close to Leopold. “I think there’s something else we need to discuss, but I’d like to keep it between us.”
Leopold was intrigued. “Okay.”
“The Singapore connection has me worried.”
“Don’t be. No bank in Singapore is going to risk losing my business.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. A few years ago, I was working a money laundering case, money being laundered in Singapore. I tracked the source of the money to illegal arms sales to radicals in Syria. Syrian authorities arrested a man for the crime, but he claimed to be working for someone else. They offered him his life if he gave up his employer.”
“Did he?”
“He claimed to be working for a woman named Nasrin.”
“A woman arming radicals in the Middle East? Isn’t that a little unusual?”
“Unheard of. That’s why the government didn’t believe him and executed him. Her name has come up a couple of times since. A guy who tried to drive a truck loaded with explosives claimed Nasrin put him up to it. Officially, the Bureau’s position is that Nasrin doesn’t exist. She’s like the Red Hood.”
“Red Hood?”
“You know, from the Batman comics. Batman is chasing this villain called the Red Hood. Only, it turns out there is no Red Hood. It’s just a bunch of guys and a red mask. Nasrin is the same thing. She’s just a name floating around.”
“You said that’s the official story. Does that mean you don’t buy the official version?”
“I wouldn’t say that. I just think that if a woman is convincing men to commit acts of terror … well, you have to admit it’s not entirely dissimilar.”
“Nasrin. Nasrin.” Leopold rolled the name around a couple of times. “That’s Persian, isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Chavez confirmed. It’s Persian for ‘wild rose.’”
PART FOUR: SAN FRANCISCO
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Nasrin divested herself of the Rani Gupta persona as soon as she arrived in San Francisco. Once off the plane, she followed a group of women into the ladies room. She entered a stall near the end, but not the handicap stall. She didn’t want to risk some cripple in a wheelchair pounding on the door before she was finished. As soon as the door was closed, she unwound the sari from her body and stuffed it into her carry-on. She removed the tie from her hair and fluffed it up. Out of her carry-on, she produced acid-washed, bellbottom jeans and a baggy Grateful Dead T-shirt. She slipped them on. Next, she took a towelette and removed her makeup. Then, using a handheld mirror, she reapplied a different color lipstick and eyeshadow. She decided to keep wearing the sandals. They worked with her new character, but she quickly applied some bright green nail polish, a difficult feat of contortion in a restroom stall. She wrapped a rainbow-colored bandana around her head as a flourish. One final detail: her carry-on bag was reversible. She turned it inside out, and it now was a different color and texture.
Once she became a different person, she left the restroom and the airport. It was highly unlikely anyone would be waiting for her at the San Francisco airport or, even more unlikely, had followed her from New York. Unlikely but not impossible. Anyone expecting to see Rani Gupta walk out of the airport would be disappointed. Theoretically, someone watching recordings of the video surveillance might eventually realize that the Indian woman who entered the ladies’ room never left, and the brown-skinned hippie who left never entered. By the time that happened, she would be long gone.
She couldn’t be one hundred percent certain she wasn’t being watched. After all, Leopold Blake was looking for her. She knew enough about the great Leopold Blake to be extra careful. Leopold Blake would be surprised to know how much she knew about him.
Nasrin took an airport shuttle downtown. Once in downtown San Francisco, she walked to the infamous Tenderloin district. It was a short walk. Few blocks separated one of the richest parts of San Francisco from one of the poorest. As she walked, the theaters and the five-star hotels and the outrageously overpriced clothing stores transformed into residential hotels and crumbling brick walls covered with graffiti. Tourists carrying Macy’s shopping bags were replaced with the homeless, staggering drunks, and hookers engaged in territorial battles over the best street corners. Nasrin became aware of the scent of urine emanating from the gutters.
There were a few attempts to add a quirky charm to an otherwise depressing street scene, such as some elaborate and genuinely beautiful street art. Unfortunat
ely, much of the art was defaced by crude gang tags rendered in black spray paint.
She found herself on Levinson, between Eddy and Turk, one of the most dangerous stretches of pavement in the city. It was there that she located the SRO (Single Room Occupancy) hotel she was looking for. Despite the designation, one room in that hotel was occupied by three men, who were waiting for her. The ancient creature (Nasrin couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman) manning the front desk didn’t even look at her as she passed.
She found the room and rapped softly on the door. It was Conor who opened it. “You came.”
She slipped into the room quickly and closed the door. “Of course I came.”
“See who it is? It’s Rose.” Conor was both relieved and gleeful.
“We can see that, dipshit,” Irwin snapped. Salazar said nothing. The three men had been cooped up together and their nerves were beyond simply frayed. They were ready to kill each other. Because the rules said only one occupant, two of the men had to remain in hiding at all times. The third, Conor, could only leave to get food.“I’m very cross with you,” she said, softly. “I trusted you to handle things while I was away. If you had done what I said, we wouldn’t be in the spot of bother we are now.”
Conor pointed at Irwin. It wasn’t my fault. It was him. I did everything just like you said. I tried to tell them we should call you, but they just wouldn’t listen.”
“Hey, Conor,” Irwin said. “You got a little something brown on your nose.”
“Recriminations accomplish nothing,” Nasrin said in a reasonable and calming tone of voice. “We have to decide what to do next. There is no way to set up a new operation now. We can’t stay here. We need to leave town. Indeed, I think we should all leave the country and we don’t have time to build up a stake. We need one big score. I’m thinking ten million dollars, minimum.”
Salazar had remained quiet, pessimistic about their chances of getting away, let alone making any money. Now, he perked up. “You have an idea?”
“I always have … let’s call it a contingency plan. We have much to prepare and we must move quickly. First, we need another man, someone smart with a little technical know-how. Can you find us someone, Sal?”
“I know a guy who’s been dying to get in on a big score and he’s no dummy.”
Irwin stuck a hand in the air. He often did that when he asked a question, as if he had never matured beyond high school. “What do we need another guy for? That’s just one more to split the take with.”
“This insurance man, Gil DiMauro, has seen all of you.” She explained. “We need someone he won’t recognize.”
Irwin couldn’t believe his ears. “We’re going after DiMauro?”
“Indeed we are, Irwin.”
“Fuckin’ A!”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
DiMauro looked at the caller ID on his phone and considered not answering. She’ll just call back. He answered, “No.”
“Whaddaya mean, no?” The Old Lady said. “You don’t even know what I want.”
“Doesn’t matter. The answer is still no.”
“You need to come into work tomorrow.”
“Now I know what you want. No.”
“This isn’t a request.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday. Even God doesn’t work on Sunday.”
“It’s easier to get God to work than you. At least he answers prayers once in a while.”
“I’m busy tomorrow. I have to find a new place to live. A crazy person burned up my apartment. Remember?”
“Johnny is coming. I need you to help me put together all the evidence we have in the DataGuard case.”
“Why is this so urgent? The money’s gone. We’re never getting it back. You might as well just accept it.”
“Stop being a pain. I assumed you’ve heard about those bombings and shootings in New York?”
“What about them?”
“That’s where the money went. It’s been used to fund some kind of terror operation. The FBI wants everything we have and they want it now.”
“Are you serious?”
“What, you think I’m joking?”
“Of course not. I forgot you don’t have a sense of humor.”
“Just be there, smartass. Johnny is bringing some hot shot finance guy with him. They hope to use the money trail to find the assholes behind it all.”
“I’ll be there.”
DiMauro avoided working on the weekends whenever possible. He tried avoiding work during the weekdays as well, but that was more difficult. On the rare occasion he did work weekends, he usually dressed casually in jeans and an open neck shirt. The Old Lady said some “financial big shot” was going to be there, or did she say “financial hot shot?” The next morning, he decided to look a bit more professional. He wore his dark gray suit with a yellow shirt and added a blue and yellow swirly Jerry Garcia tie called “Liquid Torso.”
Most of the tenants of the Bremler building were finance companies, so no one ever worked on the weekends. All doors in the Bremler building were locked on the weekends, including the front doors. DiMauro took out his security card and swiped it past the magnetic reader. There was a beep, a green light flashed, and he pushed open the doors. The normally busy lobby was nearly empty and silent, as expected. He approached the security desk and saw an unfamiliar face. DiMauro showed his security card to the man. “Hi. Where’s Lou? He usually works weekends.”
“Out sick.” The man said. “The flu, I think.”
“Regular flu or stomach flu?”
“Stomach. I thinks he’s been on the pot since last night.”
“Damn. I hope he gets better soon. Say, you’re new here, aren’t you?”
“First day on the job.”
“Don’t get used to seeing me. I never work on Sundays.”
“I don’t mind. I like the quiet.”
“Well, good luck.” DiMauro headed for the elevators. “Have a nice day.”
“You too.”
DiMauro pressed the button and, ding, the elevator doors opened. He pressed the button for the twenty-ninth floor. He checked out his reflection in the mirrored surface and fiddled with his tie. When the door opened, he found himself staring at a massive chest. He looked up and saw a face he hadn’t seen in years, except in his nightmares.
“Long time no see, Di-Moron.”
“Oh, shit.” Biff!
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Irwin picked DiMauro up bodily and slammed him down hard into an office chair. He recognized the other two men from DataGuard, Conor and Salazar. They both used rolls of silver duct tape to restrain DiMauro in the chair, wrapping the tape around his chest and legs but leaving his arms free.
The only person DiMauro didn’t recognize was the woman. She was tall and beautiful, and her cheekbones gave her a glamorous, movie star quality. “Are you comfortable, Mr. DiMauro? Gil. May I call you Gil?”
“Um, I guess.” Like he was going to tell her no. Not knowing what else to say, he offered, “I like your shirt.”
“I don’t care for hippie music. It demonstrates the blatant hypocrisy of so-called American radicals, making fortunes while claiming to be anti-capitalist.” Her smile and cheerful tone were incongruous compared to her words.
DiMauro asked the question he didn’t want to ask. “What do you want with me?”
“Capitalism. You are going to make us some money.”
“Um, okay. How would you like me to do that?”
“Why don’t we discuss that at your desk?” She scanned the sea of cubicles. “Which is your desk?”
DiMauro pointed. “That way.”
She followed the direction of his finger. Irwin roughly grabbed the back of the chair and she tut-tutted. “Gently, Irwin.”
Whoever this woman was, she was clearly in charge. She seemed to have Irwin under control, but DiMauro knew better. Whatever she had planned, it would go wrong. He only hoped he lived through it. All three of the men had guns tucked under their belts. Salazar c
arried two gym bags filled with what DiMauro assumed were more weapons.
He was wheeled up to his desk, and the woman pressed the power button on his computer.
“Here is our dilemma,” she said, still smiling. “We need money so we can leave the country. So, how do we get this money? Rob a bank? No, too dangerous. Even if we succeeded, how would we get the money out of the country? These days, of course, people can send money electronically. We could wire the money to our destination and never even have to touch it. Only, where to get the money and how to send it? So, I asked myself, ‘Who has lots and lots of money?’ Do you know what answer I came up with?”
After a long moment of silence, DiMauro realized she was expecting him to answer. “Um, insurance companies?”
“Exactly. Best of all, we don’t have to feel bad about robbing you because insurance companies are the biggest thieves in the world.”
DiMauro’s voice was weak and tremulous. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you? No matter what I do, you’ll kill me anyway. So, why should I help you?”
Nasrin leaned in close to DiMauro and, disturbingly, put a hand tenderly to his check. “That’s a very good question. Here is the answer: because you’re smart. You certainly think you’re smarter that a bunch of dumb crooks. Maybe you are. You think you can outwit us. Maybe you can. I can see the gears turning in your head. You might just be able to escape if only you had time. That’s why you’re going to help us. It’s the only way to buy yourself time.”
Salazar found a nearby chair and sat down next to DiMauro. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna use your company’s claims payment system to send money just as if you were paying an insurance claim.” He pulled out a sheet of paper with various numbers and laid it on the desk in front of DiMauro. “You’re gonna send the money to this bank account. Here’s the account number, routing number, everything you need.”
“I can’t,” DiMauro said, his voice low and trembling.
Broken: A Leopold Blake Thriller Page 15
