by A. C. Fuller
"Wait, how?"
"Take in dirty money through the empanada stands, then walk next door to your liquor store and send it to various people via Western Union. Keep the amounts low enough per transaction and no one notices. Even if they do, you've got enough greased cops and politicians that it doesn't matter."
"Interesting."
"At the time, Mikey was in a power struggle with Diaz's other brother, David, to take over sole control of what remained of The Corporation. She asked for a meeting, assuring Mikey and David she wanted to negotiate a truce between them, in her father's memory. He'd passed away by this point. She arrived late and plowed an Escalade into the front of the empanada stand. She did it herself. Bam. Shattered glass, exploded soda machine. The whole bit. Meanwhile, three men from her crew walked in the back door and shot her two brothers in the face." She paused. "Closed casket. After that, well… she ran everything."
Cole swallowed hard, then put her phone on speaker and set it on the desk. She swung a leg onto the back of the chair to stretch her hamstring. She'd been researching for hours and the tension had translated into tight muscles. "What were her goals when she took over?"
"She was deeply involved in the Miami community. Charity, small business loans, and so on. But it was a myth she was trying to 'go straight.' That's what the movies and most cops don't get. People like her don't see it as crime versus legit business. That's not how they think. It's all just business. Of course, it pays to have a lot of legal sources of income, but make no mistake about it, she controlled the Miami drug trade. No one could do a serious transaction without her handling the money. A billion dollars a year went through her hands, and she took fifteen percent. Politicians used her. Cops. Judges. Anyone with money they couldn't just deposit into checking."
Cole switched legs, stretching her other hamstring. "Damn. What about crypto? Was she wading into that?"
"Not wading. She dove head first."
"What do you mean?"
"She saw the future of the drug business as a technology play. Sure, it would be enforced by violence, but she believed whoever controlled the flow of money would control the drug trade. If you can't get large sums of money to and fro, you can't deal on any real scale, right? For the last two years she worked with a team of computer scientists plus—no joke—a currency expert who'd once worked for the world bank."
"To what end?"
"To launch a currency. Her own currency. An untraceable, end-to-end encrypted currency, like Bitcoin for drug deals, and only transactions of a million dollars or more."
"How can she do that?"
"A legit shell company, owned by another legit shell company, controlled by the board of directors of a third legit shell company, run—in secret—by Ana Diaz herself."
Cole stared off into space. Working the crime beat in New York City, she'd seen some nefarious schemes, but nothing like this.
“If you ask me," Frias continued, "she got killed because of that, assuming this isn't about political ideology as the manifesto claims.”
Cole dropped her leg to the floor and sat, grabbing her phone on the way down. Something in this story triggered a memory, something she'd read earlier in the day. "Say more about that. How'd it work?"
Cole's phone beeped. Call waiting from Warren. She declined the call as Frias went on.
"Say I'm importing ten million dollars worth of knock-off Fentanyl from China. I bring it in on a container ship and I want to unload it to a local crew for distribution. How much would it be worth to everyone involved to have a trusted third party handle the money?"
"A lot."
"It was going to be like PayPal for gangs. She'd collect the money from the buyer, pay the seller, and guarantee the transaction the same way credit card companies do. People trusted her. We're talking fraud protection, just like credit cards. But no one would have defrauded her because of her muscle. I mean, she'd had both her brothers shot in the face. It was brilliant. Without ever touching another drug, she could have collected hundreds of millions a year."
Cole saw it. Diaz was on the verge of becoming an internationally powerful criminal who could move the value of currencies and rival small countries.
"That was her goal," Frias continued. "Her dream. That's where she was headed—an international banking system for high-value criminals."
7
Warren sat on the ground beside an ambulance, staring at the charred hotel entrance. Bodies and pieces of bodies had been crudely covered with hotel blankets. The bomber was dead. He assumed all five investigators were killed as well. Shards of broken glass, strips of metal and concrete, and a lone brown shoe lay scattered around the blast point.
Two female officers approached and stood over him. One glanced at her notebook. "You Mr. Warren? The American?"
Warren nodded.
"EMTs took your vitals? Checked you out?"
He slowly rose to his feet. "I'm fine." The pressure of the blast had pressed into him, but his injuries were mild—a slight ankle sprain and bloody knuckles from protecting the boy's head as they hit the ground. Now he'd limp with both legs, at least for a while. His prosthetic had come off, and it took Warren ten minutes to bend a small metal connector back into place. It wasn't perfect, but at least he got it reattached. A chunk of stone had hit him in the center of his back, scuffing his leather jacket and likely leaving a bruise. An EMT had cleaned and wrapped his knuckles.
"We reviewed the CCTV," the officer said, "but we'd like your statement. You saved that boy, y'know."
"Maybe."
"You did, Mr. Warren. If he'd continued even three more seconds, he'd be dead."
"What happened to the five… I don't know… two officers, I think, and three suits?"
She looked at the ground. She wasn't going to confirm all five were dead, but her face did that for her. "This won't take long. Just walk us through what you saw."
The other officer took out a notebook and stepped forward.
Warren described exactly what he'd seen. The boy ducking under the police tape. No, he didn't think the family was involved. The man in the trench coat. No, he hadn't said anything. Warren had taken hundreds of statements. He knew what the police wanted to hear.
When he was finished, the lead officer asked, "What brought you to London?"
Warren didn't like lying, but they didn't know he was there to investigate the nine murders, and he wasn't about to get drawn into whatever this new wrinkle was, or was about to become. "Vacation."
"Well, we're sorry this happened. London is usually a very safe city." They took the name of the hotel and Warren's made-up departure date, and moved along to question more witnesses.
A moment later, a man in a fedora approached. "Greg Bailey from The Guardian. Couldn't help but overhear your conversation. Can I ask you some questions for my story?"
Warren turned and dialed Cole again, walking away briskly to get away from the reporter. News junkie that she was, he assumed she'd already heard about the bombing. He pictured her in the hotel, eyes jumping from Twitter feed to TV news. She probably already knew more about it than he did.
"Bombing?" she asked when Warren told her. "Where?" She sounded distant, like she was barely listening to him.
"Turn on the TV. I was there."
"In London?"
"Damn, Cole. Are you high right now? Someone just blew up five people at the entryway of the hotel where bin Muqrin was killed."
There was a sigh on the other end of the call, then the sound of shuffling around the room. "Hold on. Putting you on speaker… Yeah, I see it now…"
"You on Twitter?"
"Yeah. Hey, there you are."
"What?"
There was a long silence, then Cole said, "You're about to get famous. Maybe not for-real famous, but Internet famous. There's a video. It's already viral."
That was the last thing he wanted. But there was nothing he could do about it. "The bombing. Is there anything about the bombing?"
"Wait… He
re's something. It's from a site called Aggression Storm. Seems to be… Yeah, it's a note."
Warren held his breath as Cole read. How did she find everything so fast? Online searches that would take him an hour took her seconds.
"I don't know if this is real or not," she said. "But it looks like the bombing has nothing to do with the nine murders."
8
Warren walked against a wave of people who'd heard about the bombing and were rushing in to get a closer look. "What's it say?"
"Terrorist group—a different terrorist group—has taken responsibility for the bombing."
"Son of a—" Warren ground his molars together. "I almost got blown up and it's not connected? What was that bastard blowing people up for?"
The line was quiet as Cole read. Warren passed a pub, where a dozen faces stared at a TV on the wall. He stopped at the window and saw… himself. The back of his leather jacket flashed across the screen. He was looking at the boy, who was in the background of the shot. In the video, he ducked under the blue and white police tape and ran. Just before he reached the boy, the video went into slow motion. Every face in the pub was glued to the screen. He grabbed the boy and turned him away from the blast only a second before it detonated. For the first time, Warren saw his own face as he turned and dove away from the blast.
It didn't look real. It didn't feel real.
The scroll at the bottom of the TV read: American Hero Saves Boy in London Terrorist Bombing.
A man stopped at the window and stood next to Warren, staring in. Warren pulled up the collar on his jacket to shield his face.
Walking on, he asked, "You still reading?"
"Yeah, it's… it's complicated. I've never heard of this group and don't really understand their ideology. I've made some other breakthroughs, though. Get back here and we can talk through it."
Warren pinched the phone between his ear and shoulder and pressed both hands into his thighs. "Gimme the short version. The Cliffs Notes."
"Okay, lemme just finish reading."
He felt a group of people looking at him, or was he imagining it? He stepped into an alley between two brick buildings and leaned against a wall next to a dumpster. He understood why people wanted to watch the video. The bombing made them feel like crap, and it made them feel better to create a hero out of Warren. But he wanted no part of the five minutes of fame he was about to get.
"Basically," Cole said at last, "it's a group of exiled Chinese Christians, living in the west. U.S., UK, Italy, and Canada. They seem to be pissed that western democracies are placating China. Something about 'cooperating with the oppressor' and 'economic cowardice.'"
"They're pissed at China, so they're pissed at the countries that deal with China, so they blow up people who have nothing to do with either?" Warren stared at a long scratch in the wall, a spot where the back of the dumpster had ground up against the brick for years. Inexplicably, he wanted to punch a hole through the thick metal wall of the dumpster.
"That sounds like what they're saying," Cole said. "Wait… yeah… they even say here how they apologize for killing people, but they need to bring attention to their cause. Says here, 'Until the great democracies of the west recognize the persecution of Christians in China and unilaterally cut off all business dealings with China—"
"Save it."
"Why don't you come back here? This video of you is—"
"Nah." Warren pulled the phone from his face and checked the time. 4 PM. "I'm gonna go see the professor I told you about. Says he understands the terrorists. Can help me understand. Meet me there?"
"I'm neck deep in research."
There was an awkward pause. "Fine. I'll see you later."
"Okay, see ya."
He was about to hang up, then said, "Ever think there's just no point to any of this? We solve these murders and what? Another group of crazy bastards I've never heard of—who think they're Christian dissidents—blow up cops for… for what?" He swiveled and punched the dumpster as hard as he could. A metallic thud echoed in the alley. Pain shot from his hand through his arm and into his shoulders. Blood seeped through the mesh dressing on his injured knuckles.
"What was that?" Cole asked.
"Nothing."
Another long pause, then Cole said, "You're starting to sound like me, Rob. And just when I was feeling optimistic."
9
Cole hung up and sat in front of her laptop. She tried to focus on typing notes, but her mind kept returning to Warren. In their relationship, he was usually the less cynical of the two. Just as she was making progress on the case, he sounded like he wanted to quit.
Maybe it was a temporary lull in enthusiasm. He'd been ten yards from getting blown up. Still, it concerned her. She assumed some of his optimism came from the fact that he'd gone through AA and faced down so many of his demons. What would happen if they resurfaced?
Her phone dinged with a text from Brian McPherson, one of the business reporters she'd contacted earlier. She'd helped him out of a jam with their boss his first week at the Sun. Her phone dinged again as she was reading the first text. Then again. And again.
Five, six, seven text messages came, all from McPherson. The first was a long message, but the rest were images. She clicked one at random. At first she was confused. A pink-faced Martin Price held a martini, his arm around a woman thirty years his junior. Next to them, sitting at a table in what appeared to be a fancy restaurant, was someone Cole recognized but couldn't quite place. Was it…
What?
It was Alvin Meyers, the former Vice President.
Her mind went blank, like something inside her had to make room for what was about to happen. She sat on a chair next to the window, which she opened a crack, letting in a freezing stream of air.
Texts were still arriving. More photos.
She read the message.
Jane,
This is absolutely off-the-record and confidential. But I trust you. Owe you. You asked re: Martin Price, and I know something no one else does. Price is reclusive—I think you know. No interviews, etc. Six years ago he created an Instagram account under a fake name. Johnny Galt. I don't think the Atlas Shrugged reference was an accident. Private account. I worked for him ten years ago and followed his Instagram before he made it private. Also under a pseudonym.
Last six years I've spied on his posts, which he thinks can only be seen by his 20 or 30 followers. He uses the account to show lifestyle and network. Pure vanity. He deleted the account 10 days ago. When the Ambani shooter used his rooftop, I wondered about a connection, but couldn't find one. Then Meyers died. Look at the photos. I'm sending screenshots dating back to the beginning. A who's who of famous men and a few women.
I never have and never would use this for a story. It's given me some angles to research, but I'm out of my depth. Hope you're not.
The photo of Martin Price with the Vice President was from four years ago. She kept scrolling, past photos of Price with people she didn't recognize. All looked rich. Most were at dinner tables in fancy restaurants. The texts stopped coming and her eye stopped on the last photo. Price posed with an Asian man around forty years old. He was deeply tanned and looked unhappy to be in the photograph. His black hair cut short, he wore hip rectangular glasses. His handsome face was half-turned away from the camera, his eyes on Price as though asking, "Really?"
She recognized him, but couldn't recall his name. Luckily, Price had captioned the photo: "Sushi and sake with the legendary Ibo Kane."
Kane. The name set off alarm bells. He was someone she'd considered briefly as a potential target of the killers. He had the stature of someone the assassins would go after, and was pro-globalization, supported a unified world currency, global banking, and international law.
She pored through her notes, scanning for the name.
Marty Goldberg, the D.C. lobbyist, had done work for Kane. A lot of work. In fifteen minutes she found a dozen instances when Goldberg had lobbied federal agencies in D.C. on beha
lf of Kane, Inc.
She looked back further, into her notes from the day she'd met Warren back in New York. Kane had been a business rival of Raj Ambani. Years ago, a newspaper article quoted him opposing a merger Ambani had tried to complete.
"Oh, my God." She stood, paced rapidly for a minute, then sat and looked again at the image of Kane with Martin Price.
She found Kane's bio on the website of Kane, Inc. She read it twice, then his Wikipedia page and a profile in a business magazine. Like Martin Price, Kane was reclusive. But unlike Price, he wasn't just a powerful New York City millionaire. He was a billionaire, and one of the most quietly powerful men in the world.
She read another bio, completing her picture of the man.
Ibo Kane was a half-American, half-Chinese businessman who founded a social media company, then a digital payment company, then a digital ad platform. He created hedge funds to legally manipulate financial markets and move money around the world, then used his enormous wealth to buy media and business entities throughout the U.S. and China. Kane also cut deals with the NSA and CIA. Brokered by Marty Goldberg in D.C., the deals allowed the federal agencies to use some of his data in exchange for paving the way to mega-deals with the FTC and other regulatory bodies. Forty-nine years old, he looked only forty. Kane was handsome, brilliant, powerful, and respected.
There was zero direct evidence he was involved. She didn't know how or why, but Cole was certain Ibo Kane was behind the nine murders. She knew it as much as she'd known anything in her life.
She'd heard people say social media would be the downfall of civilization. She didn't really believe that. To her, social media was like most new technological innovations: useful, but subject to abuse. If she was right, it would be the downfall of the bastards behind this crime. A stupid Instagram post by a drunk millionaire—Martin Price—who didn't know a reporter was following him under an alias.
Pure ego would be their undoing.
