by Greg Rucka
It is possible, now, that you may decide to turn your back on what you know, what you can do. If your departure was a decision of self-preservation, rather than, say, greed, you might now consider trying to adopt what is called a “normal life.” After all, you know many things, you have many skills.
But they are skills that cannot be sold legitimately. You have no references, no recommendations. Your military service, if you have one, cannot be revealed. You have no identity, and thus, no history. Thirty years old, and on the job application in front of you, under “prior experience,” you find yourself forced to write the word “none.”
Certainly, there is work to be found that is not contingent on a well-rounded résumé. You can find yourself waiting tables, perhaps, or working in a garage, or cleaning an office in the middle of the night, but, honestly, how long will that last before your money runs out entirely?
This is further complicated by the fact that you are now hunted. Those you betrayed by departing are certainly keeping one eye open for you, at least for the moment. You have evaded them thus far, and a stalemate of a sort has descended; but they can be very patient, for their resources are nearly limitless; they are waiting to see where you appear next, to see what you have become.
In the end, you make your decision. You will put your marketable skills to use. You will do the thing that you have been made to do. You will sell the only thing you have to sell. You will make yourself available, because you know that somewhere there is a man or a woman who, for whatever the reason, wishes another man or woman dead, and all they lack is the means to make it happen.
You are that means. You are that mechanism.
That is the service you can provide.
And now you come to the problem: You cannot, absolutely cannot, do by yourself what is required.
It is simply impossible; there are not enough hours in the day. What you sell is illegal, which means that anyone looking to buy your services must be investigated thoroughly before you even begin to consider taking the job they offer. What you sell is illegal, which means that you must insulate yourself in such a way that the law cannot find you. What you sell is illegal, which means the tools you most often use must be acquired illegally. What you sell is illegal, which means you must never be the same person for long, so identity after identity must be prepared.
Every one of these things takes time, and you have yet to even approach your first target.
You cannot do it alone. You need help. You need the services of someone who can provide the support you once enjoyed, or at least something approximating it. Someone to handle the details, while you handle the work.
Like it or not, eventually, you are going to have to trust somebody.
You need a lawyer.
Switzerland is too obvious. Certainly, the Swiss reputation for discretion and financial wizardry is well earned, but as a result it has begun to draw unwanted attention. What you need is a location that sees a lot of money passing through, as well as a lot of people. A place that, ideally, has more resident aliens than actual residents. Someplace where your erratic comings and goings will be entirely beneath notice.
Monaco is ideal.
The place decided, the right person must now be selected. This must be done delicately, with great care. The wrong approach to the wrong person could end your new career before it even begins. Research is required. Your ideal representation would be male, in his late fifties, and single. Someone working in their own firm, or in a firm of adequate pedigree and prestige, meaning a firm that represents clients the world never knows. You do not want the firm that represents, for instance, Paris Hilton; you want the firm that represents the rest of the Hilton family.
You comb through newspapers and online archives. You search for names that you have come across in your work, the powerful men and women who surface only once in a great while, buried deep inside the Financial Times or Le Monde. People associated with the Carlyle or Blackstone groups, perhaps.
You make a list of candidates, learning everything you can about them as quickly and discreetly as possible. This person at that firm is married with three small children. That person at this firm was arrested for possession of narcotics. This one appears time and time again in photographs at social events, parties and the like. That one has taken three privately operated trips to Thailand in the last two years.
All of these you dismiss as too risky.
If you are lucky, you may find yourself with as many as three or even four names.
Now you must make your approach.
The meeting takes place in the attorney’s office, by appointment. The appointment has been made with some urgency, a day or two earlier. If your research was productive, you may even have dropped the name of another client to the firm as the source of the referral. You have dressed for the part. If you’re female, perhaps you’ve chosen something a little more flattering than normal, not because you wish to seduce the candidate, but to establish a type of personality. If you’re male, perhaps you arrive a minute or two late for the meeting, apologetic, blaming the delay on a business call.
You are met at the office, offered a seat, asked if you would like some refreshment. You accept, taking water. The most cursory small talk takes place, and then the door closes and you and the candidate are left alone.
The candidate addresses you by name, asking how he can be of service to you.
You tell him you wish to secure title to an object of some expense. What you choose depends on the state of your resources, of course, because you will have to outlay this cash (though you will also recoup the expense later, if all goes well). Whatever you choose, it must be something appropriately expensive, to indicate that the monies involved will be worth the candidate’s time, yet it cannot be so outlandish that it will bankrupt you. If your finances were not everything they should have been before reaching Monaco, it is possible that you may have detoured in the South of France, and taken the opportunity to secure more funds by robbing a bank, or better, by taking down a narcotics sale. It may even have been necessary to do this multiple times, though, of course, each crime you commit brings greater risk.
An expensive car would work, a top-of-the-line Ferrari, perhaps, or an Aston Martin. A small yacht might be acceptable. Real estate, however, is best.
In this instance, you tell the candidate that you’re interested in purchasing a small villa here in Monaco. Nothing fancy, you say, perhaps five, six million dollars. You travel quite a lot, as it happens, but you do love it here, and are interested in setting down, say, some shallow roots.
This I can help you with, the candidate says.
Wonderful, you say. I have the place picked out already.
The candidate smiles.
As for the issue of title, you say, my ex is a gold-digging piece of excrement—pardon my language—and I’d rather the purchase remain off the books, so to speak. Would it be possible to have the title placed in some sort of shell company, some way to keep my name out of it? That I could own the property without there being a paper trail that says as much? Is that possible?
And you smile, just enough so the candidate doesn’t know if you’re being naïve, or something more.
One of two things happens.
In the first instance, the candidate frowns slightly, embarrassed, and perhaps sits back in his seat. After a moment, with regret, he explains to you that the laws in Monaco—the banking laws—are under the French system, and doing such a thing would be illegal. He’s extremely sorry, but he cannot help you.
At which point you look mildly surprised, apologize for taking his time, and depart.
Scratch one candidate.
In the second instance, the candidate appraises you for a moment or two, then nods and says that such a thing can be done, but not without some legal maneuvering. He may mention additional cost, though, in all likelihood, will not, as that would be gauche in the extreme.
You respond by saying that you suspected as much, and
would appreciate any assistance he can offer.
The transaction then takes place. You remain in Monaco long enough to see it to conclusion, and at its end, you thank the candidate, and ask if he might be available to you in the future.
There is a chance here that he will say no, that this is the extent of the illegalities he is willing to undertake. But, if all has gone well, if you and he have managed a rapport of some sort, he will say yes, certainly.
You thank him, and part company.
Perhaps two or three weeks later, you call to make another appointment. The sooner the better; you only need a few minutes of his time. If your last transaction was as successful as it seemed, he will accommodate you.
You come to the office with a briefcase. Not one of the metal-sided aluminum Halliburton cases, because those positively scream “ill-gotten gains” at the top of their lungs. Something elegant, leather, preferably.
The candidate greets you warmly, ushering you into his office. He offers, once again, refreshment, but this time you decline. You have a train to catch, you apologize.
Then you set the briefcase on his desk, opening it as you speak. You say that you have some business to attend to in South Africa, and you would be very grateful if he could hold this for you, just in his office safe, perhaps, until you get back at the end of the week. You show him the contents, stacks and stacks of currency, preferably in dollars. Half a million dollars, you tell him, and you of course will pay him for the service.
Again, this may prove to be too much, and he may refuse. In such a case, it is best to apologize and depart with no further fuss.
If he agrees, you do much the same thing, with gratitude in the place of apology, before leaving to catch your train.
You are not going to South Africa.
You are staying in Monaco, and putting the candidate under the microscope, or at least the best microscope you can manage while working alone. First, you must ascertain that he has not told anyone of his dealings with you, especially the authorities. This can be determined in relatively short order. Next, you begin tracking his movements, his activities, devoting multiple days to this task. You mark his social habits, his associates, any friends, any lovers. You follow him in his off hours, to and from work. You watch him about town, and at home.
You’re looking for things you might have missed, anything that might become a liability. Soon, now, you and the candidate will be entering a very long-term, very permanent partnership. Once the next step is taken, there will be little opportunity to correct any errors of judgment. Now is the best time to put the brakes on, before things progress.
So you follow the candidate, and you learn everything you can. One morning, after tailing him to his office, you double back and return to his home. You break in and perform a comprehensive search, taking most of the day to do it, going about it carefully, so as to leave no signs of your presence. You examine his clothing, noting the labels, discovering the name of the tailor he uses. You read the old love letters kept in the back of the bottom desk drawer. You find his collection of art-porn DVDs. You discover that he has a taste for very expensive whiskey. You take note of it all.
Once all of this is done, you withdraw to consider what you have learned. You must make your decision. Can you trust this person, this man? Is his greed enough to be of service to you, and yet not so great as to be a liability? Is his willingness to break the law pathological, or considered?
No matter what you do, however, you cannot eliminate the risk you are about to take. The best you can make is an educated guess. Do you bring the candidate in, or abandon the pursuit?
Eventually, you are going to have to trust somebody.
Eleven days after leaving the briefcase with the candidate, you call again. This time, you speak to him personally. You tell him that you’ll be in town that evening, and that you’d like to come by and collect your case, settle up, and speak about other business. It is a given, at this point, that the candidate is happy to accommodate you.
You arrive that evening, just as the offices are closing, and the candidate greets you, asks how your trip went. You tell him that it went well. He invites you into his office, and returns your case to you. You do not bother to open it and check the contents—you are trusting him, as he has trusted you—but instead produce an envelope from your bag or your coat, and hand it to him in turn.
For your help, you say.
He resists the urge to examine the envelope, to count the money. He can tell by the feel of it that it is substantial, and in cash. He tucks the envelope away, then offers you a drink, as he has on each visit. This time you accept, a glass of Scotch or brandy, perhaps, if he is willing to join you in it.
He is, and now, each of you seated in the office, you relax. Perhaps you light a cigarette, perhaps you loosen your tie, but by your manner and your look, you make it apparent that you are off the clock, and you are inviting him to act in the same manner. You exchange more small talk; maybe you steer the conversation to one of the hobbies or interests you learned of while examining his life. You keep it subtle; the ideal is that he does not realize until days later that the reason you spoke of the air show you saw in Paris is because you know of his fascination with vintage biplanes.
Finally, you set aside your drink and say to the candidate that you appreciate everything he’s done for you. He’s been very helpful, you say, to such an extent that you’d be interested in expanding upon your business relationship.
He indicates his interest, his curiosity. He asks you to please continue.
I’m a consultant, you tell him, in the risk business. I’ve clients all around the world, and most of them are very, very sensitive about their privacy, about having their identities known. For that reason, even I need to be able to distance myself from the people who hire me.
The candidate looks at you, listening closely. His expression tells you that he is trying to determine just what, exactly, the “risk business” is.
Go on, he says.
Look, you say, I realize this sounds very cloak-and-dagger, but in my profession, absolute privacy of the client is the paramount concern. I’m certain you understand the need for that kind of discretion.
Absolutely.
You nod, as if to confirm that his words and your thought are entirely as one. You lean forward, making eye contact, and then continue. I need someone who has proven himself to be both responsible and resourceful to act as my intermediary, you say. Someone who can retrieve business propositions for me from a variety of sources, and then forward them to me in a timely and secure manner. This is something that, at least in terms of contacting me, may only occur a handful of times a year, not including the one or two meetings we would have face-to-face.
You sit back, giving him a moment to consider what you have said.
If you are interested in helping me out like this, you then say, I can tell you the following. My annual income is projected to be in the tens of millions of dollars. Now, I understand that what I’m asking you to undertake for me will require a significant amount of your time and resources. Acting as my agent, so to speak, you’d of course be entitled to a generous portion of my earnings.
Do you think this would be something that might interest you?
There is a silence while the candidate considers. He is trying to determine what he knows, trying to balance that against the prospect of a generous portion of millions of dollars a year. Certainly, he has concluded that what you are doing for a living is illegal, though precisely how illegal, he is unsure. He is considering the risk to himself, not because he has reason to fear you—although, if he is the man you want, he will have realized by this juncture that you are certainly dangerous—but because money is of no worth to him if he cannot spend it.
Yes, he says, before the pause stretches too long. Yes, I am interested.
You smile, making your pleasure with his decision apparent. Wonderful, you tell him, I’m very pleased. I think we’re going to work very well
together, and I think you’re going to find our association to be a lucrative one.
It certainly sounds that way, he agrees.
I do have a project I am working on now, you tell him, as a matter of fact. What I need is a driver’s license for the U.K. with my picture on it, but in another name.
The pause this time is very brief. Perhaps he hesitates because he has realized the first thing you are asking of him, now that you have made your relationship formal, is to break the law. Or perhaps he is merely wondering how best to accomplish the goal.
I can arrange that, he tells you with a smile of his own. Yes, I can arrange that.
The name of Alena’s lawyer was Nicolas Sargenti.
CHAPTER
FIVE
“I don’t know what you want me to tell you, Elizavet,” Nicolas Sargenti said. “Even if you had done work for Gorman-North, there would be no way to prove it. The entire nature of the transaction, from its beginning to its end, is perfect in its anonymity. That is how you have always desired it, for both of our sakes, I must add.”
Alena growled from the back of her throat, and spun away from where the attorney sat in the reading chair by the window of our hotel room. “It would have been American, an American job.”
“A job on American soil?” Sargenti asked. When he spoke, his accent was more Italian than French. “Or a job bought by an American?”
“The latter, it would be the latter.”
“The same problem. Impossible to say.” Nicolas Sargenti released a pained sigh, looking to where I was lying on the bed, back against the headboard. “Michael, what is this about, please?”
“We’re having some trouble,” I told him, and indicated the bruises that covered my torso. They were glorious in their color, and while Alena had massaged most of the swelling down, their array of green, yellow, red, and blue remained spectacular, and covered me in strips and splashes from my shoulders on down, disappearing beneath the waistband of my pants.
